Coming Home Again
by OneHarperLee
Summary: When Sam jogs down a back road, he has no idea that kidnappers are waiting to make his life a nightmare.  WARNING: features kidnapping, violence, rape, potential character death, please don't read if you're underage or not comfortable with those themes.
1. Chapter 1

**Warnings: This story will heavily feature kidnapping, violence, rape, and potential character death. If you are underage, or this content doesn't appeal to you, please, please don't read. Reviews are welcome **

Chapter 1

"Last play today, guys. Let's get this right!" Beiste shouted from the sidelines.

It was a warm day in late November, and the McKinley High Titans were preparing for the final game of the regular season, the district championship. If they won this game, they would go to the first round of the Ohio Class AAAA championships, something McKinley hadn't done in fifteen years.

Sam Evans lined up under center. He hadn't started a game at quarterback since that night he had listened to Finn and gotten his shoulder dislocated, but he noticed that lately, Beiste had been giving him a lot more snaps in practice. "Any chance I could be getting a start soon?" Sam wondered as he set up. Sam was happy to have started at wide receiver all season. Hell, he was happy to have even made the varsity team, since he was new and only a sophomore. But he missed playing quarterback. He missed leading the team like he knew he could. "Nah, no way she'd take Finn out in the playoffs."

He took the snap and dropped back a few steps, bobbing on his right foot as his long fingers sought the laces. He scanned downfield. His primary was covered, but from the corner of his eye, he saw Puck break away from the defensive back. Drawing back, he fired a strike that hit Puck in stride, and Puck darted the last five yards into the end zone. Sam let out his breath in relief. If there was any chance Beiste was going to start him, that would certainly help. Finn _had_ been fumbling snaps a lot lately.

Puck jogged over and clapped a hand on Sam's shoulder. "That was a hell of a throw dude!" Puck exclaimed. "I bet you were the shit at your old school. Too bad this doofus is in your way," he said, giving Finn a playful shove. Finn gave a grunt, and Sam looked away. He tried to hide his resentment. Finn had been a good friend to him.

After Puck headed off to the locker room, Sam turned to Finn, "Hey, wanna join me on my run today? I was hoping I could ask you some stuff about Quinn." Every day after practice, Sam went for a run around campus and down the back roads of town before hitting the showers. Usually he went for about five miles, sometimes six or seven if he really needed to clear his head. Once in a while Puck would come along with him, but usually the other guys were too exhausted from practice.

"Are you nuts dude?" Finn stopped, his face scrunched up. "I don't get you. We just sweat our asses off for two hours, and you want to work out. You're in better shape than all of us, cut yourself a break!" "So I'll take that as a no?" Sam grinned. "That's a no," Finn responded, turning towards the school. "Maybe next time, then!" Sam called to Finn, now a few yards off. "Ha," Finn snorted, "Probably not, but you can ask. See ya tomorrow bud!"

Sam shrugged and pulled the sweaty practice jersey up over his head. He shucked off the shoulder pads and left them in a pile next to the goal post, where he would retrieve them on his way back. It was still quite warm in Ohio for late November, and the sun shone down through the changing leaves, casting a golden glow over the entire town. Sam looked down over his body, glistening with sweat from practice, and ran a hand over his abs. Maybe Finn didn't care about having a perfect body, but he did. And Quinn did. "Quinn," he sighed, as he started off on a jog.

She liked his blond hair. She liked his abs. She liked his big smile and soft lips. But Sam wasn't convinced that Quinn actually liked him. He had given himself completely over to her, opened his heart and gave it to her in a way that he had never done for a girl other than his mom and his sister. But he couldn't help feeling like she just wasn't that interested. He tried so hard to get close to her, to get her to open up to him and be honest with him. It didn't even have to be sex. "I mean, that would be awesome," Sam grinned to himself, turning onto a trail along the perimeter of campus, bordering the highway, "But even if she would just talk to me. If she would just look at me when I talked to her like she was totally there. I wish she could just be honest with me."

He would say something sweet to her, and her hazel eyes would flit and sparkle, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. Then her eyes would turn hard and cold, and she would push him away. When he would try to hold her and get her to tell him what was wrong, she would look away and tell him that he wouldn't understand. He knew she didn't trust boys because of what happened to her last year, but how was he supposed to prove to her that he wasn't like other guys if she never let him try?

Sam missed having an iPod to run with, that way he could just run with the beat instead of having to think so much about all of this, but that was one of the first things he sold when things had gotten hard for his family. Before his guitar. God, his guitar. Sam picked up his pace, pushing his already tired legs and lungs towards their capacity, and left the McKinley campus to start down a silent, wooded road on the outskirts of Lima.

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In a battered, grey Chevy Suburban with tinted windows, four men sat watching the McKinley football team practice from the parking lot. They had driven three and a half hours across state lines to be at practice that day, so they were determined to find something suitable. Of course, if the timing or the circumstances weren't right, it wasn't worth the risk of picking up something that would end up being useless to them. Weeks before they left home this morning, they had searched for the right town. Distance was a factor, but not the primary one. Their location in rural, northern Indiana gave them access to Indiana, Ohio, Illinois, Michigan, Wisconsin, Iowa, Kentucky, and every so often, Canada, without the hassle off too long a drive. What they really looked for in the right town was size (small enough that the kids weren't savvy city-slickers but large enough that everyone didn't know each other), above average crime rate (an occupied police department that was used to kids running off to get high), demographics (mostly white), and strong high school athletics programs. They only looked for a new town every three months, and this time, their search had led them to Lima, Ohio.

The men watched the boys practice with a keen eye. It was impossible to tell which one, if any, would be right for them with their helmets on, but they had learned from experience that following the better players would lead to good results. If possible, it shouldn't be the star of the team; his absence would spark a local outcry. But a talented kid, one who worked harder than his teammates, would likely be the right one for them.

Don, the oldest of the four at 42, sat in the passenger's side backseat flipping through an auto magazine. He was the cameraman and didn't care much for the recruiting process. He just filmed what they brought him. Every once in a while, one of the boys would catch his eye and he would take advantage of the opportunity he was entitled to as part of the operation. These occasions were rare, though, as Don vastly preferred the more feminine boys with soft eyes and lips who already knew their way around a man. These were the kinds of boys the others intentionally avoided picking up. The membership didn't like them. If the kid looked like he had done it before, like it wasn't repulsive to him, or god forbid if he looked like he liked it, their membership was enraged, called the production a fake, and three months of hard work and risk went down the drain. So Don usually stayed behind the camera.

"Hey Tyler, how about that one?" Johnny asked his cousin from behind the wheel, pointing at a group of three players lingering to chat after the others had headed to the locker room. Tyler, the leader of the operation, scanned the group of boys. One was tall, dark haired, and a bit doughy; he was also the first string quarterback, from what Tyler could tell. He wouldn't do. Another was olive-skinned with a mohawk. He definitely seemed to have a nice body on him, and personally, Tyler found him attractive, but he wasn't the sort of boy they usually brought home to their followers. Too edgy, not the right look. But Johnny seemed to have his eye on the third member of the group, an athletic blond. This one had spent most of practice at wide receiver, and had also backed up the quarterback. Tyler liked what he saw. The kid had that corn-fed, aw shucks, Midwestern boy look that his membership worshipped and a gigantic, bright smile. Their blond was currently flashing that smile at the doughboy, who also left for the locker room, leaving blondie alone on the field.

The kid turned to face them and stripped off his jersey and shoulder pads, leaving him in just a pair of knee-length Titans Football gym shorts. Just a hint of the waistband of his jockstrap showed above his shorts. Even from the car, Tyler could see the strong outline of six pack abs and broad, developed shoulders. "He's the one," Tyler nodded to Johnny, who turned the key in the Suburban's ignition. The men followed him with their eyes as he jogged around the McKinley campus. "Poor sweet thing," Tyler thought with a smirk, "he has no idea he's going to make this so easy for us." As the kid headed off the school's campus and down a secluded road, Johnny slipped the Suburban out of the parking space and trailed quietly behind.


	2. Chapter 2

**Warnings in Chapter 1**

Chapter 2

Sam's heart raced as he neared the top of the long-graded hill he had been pushing up. He loved this road because, even though the shoulder was narrow, it was well-paved and there was rarely a car to be seen. Back when he had an iPod, he could blast the music and sing along, unafraid that he'd miss the sound of an approaching car and get smushed like a pancake. Now, even without the music, he still had the scenery and his thoughts. Thick pine trees and heavy brush bordered right along the shoulder, so when he was too lazy to try to mentally work through his relationship, he liked to peer into the forest to see if he could spot a deer or a squirrel chase.

Without the music, he could clearly hear a car engine in the distance. He slid over to the far right of the shoulder, making sure to give the car as much room to pass as possible. However, as the SUV neared, it slowed to a crawl to match his pace, gliding along beside him until he stopped and turned to face it. The windows were tinted. Sam took a few deep breaths through his nose to try to slow the erratic pace of his heart and lungs. He had been running much faster today than normal, trying to push the thoughts of Quinn out of his mind, and practice had already been long and exhausting. The SUV's passenger window rolled down, and Sam could see two men who appeared to be in their late 30s, tangled in a giant map. The passenger tried to beat and smooth the map to get a wrinkle-free picture of where they were.

"Hey!" the passenger called to Sam, "Would you mind helping us out? We're pretty lost." The passenger had dark hair, close-cropped like a soldier's, with matching dark, almost black eyes. A thick stubble covered his face, and he wore a short sleeve plaid button-down. His massive forearms were very hairy. He was an enormous man. With the exception of slightly longer hair, the driver looked almost identical in both appearance and stature. Sam figured the two were brothers. The passenger flashed Sam a sheepish grin and smoothed the map over his knees. "We're on our way to Dayton, but I think we missed a couple turns a-ways back because this doesn't look like any main highway to me," he said.

"Oh, yeah. If you're trying to get to Dayton, you need to be on the highway, on 75," Sam said, leaning into the passenger side window to point to a line on the map. "You're way on the other side of town, all the way over . . . here," he scanned his finger across to approximately where they were now, the back road being too small to actually appear on the interstate map. Sam was still looking at the map when the man's hand dipped down into the door compartment and flicked up quickly with . . .

A gun? Sam's brows knitted in confusion. He had only ever seen hunting rifles before, not the automatic weapon pointed at him, and he certainly never expected one to be inches from his face. It felt like a movie, or one of those Law & Order episodes where the bad guy stops the pretty girl to ask for directions . . . oh shit. So before the fear and panic set in, Sam was paralyzed by a moment of genuine disorientation and confusion. "My buddy's going to help you into the back," the passenger explained in a gruff, low voice as he released the safety on the weapon. The back door of the SUV opened and an older, bearded man who Sam hadn't even realized was there got out and stepped towards him. "If I were you, I would be a good boy and do what he says," the man with the gun threatened.

Terror clouded Sam's eyes, and the adrenaline coursed through his body, obscuring his ability to think rationally. Like the deer his father hunted, his eyes darted back and forth quickly before his lithe body reacted and bolted for the woods. The muscles in his legs pumped hard, and he sprinted with a desperation that could never be replicated by a pursuing defensive back. He was one long stride from the relative safety of the trees when a searing pain tore through his left hamstring, sending Sam crashing to his knees then to his hands on the warm asphalt. A yelp escaped from his lips as he felt his leg burning and throbbing, spasms gripping the muscles erratically. He couldn't think clearly and couldn't remember hearing a shot, all he could do was grip at the pebbles before him and desperately try to stumble to his feet.

Before he could stand, he felt a pair of strong arms wrap around his waist, pinning his arms to his sides. His legs thrashed wildly, trying to break free, but his left leg was in so much pain that it hurt to move. "What the fuck, man? Let me go!" Sam thrashed again, trying to kick backwards with his good leg and drive his heel into the attacker's groin. So far all he was getting was air. Kicking again, Sam caught the man square in the shin with his sneakered heel. "Goddamn it, you little fucker!" the bearded man cursed, wrapping one arm tightly around Sam's throat while keeping the other around his waist. "Ty, help me out with this little fuck!" The front door opened and the passenger strode up to Sam, still struggling. He thrust the gun into Sam's bare stomach, "You want me to shoot you again? I shoot you in those pretty abs of yours and it'll take you an hour to die, at least, and you'll suffer every minute of it."

Sam shook his head frantically. "Then be a good boy and stop fighting it." Sam stopped kicking, but his body went stiff and he tried to cement his feet to the ground. They were going to have to drag him and forcibly put him in that car. The man they called Ty, the one who had asked him for directions, opened up the tailgate, and together, the two men lifted Sam and tossed him into the back. Secured in the locked car, Sam really took notice of his leg for the first time. There was a small circular wound on the side of his thigh, and a slightly larger, matching one on his hamstring. His entire leg, including the left leg of his shorts, was covered in blood. He drew his left knee up to his chest, using both hands to apply pressure to the wounds. The pain jolted through his body and a strangled cry escaped through gritted teeth. The dizziness washed over him suddenly, drowning him. His struggling mind took him back to the time his family had gone to the ocean when he was little, when he drifted out into the water and tried to jump like his mom did but a too-big wave knocked him over. But then his mom had been there to pluck him out of the water and wrap him in her arms and brush the sand from his white-blond hair. No one was with him now.

Pressing his hands tighter into his thigh to stop the bleeding, Sam let the pain and the blood loss and the dizziness carry him away.

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Tyler sighed when the kid dashed. He wasn't planning to have to shoot the kid; the fear of the gun was usually enough to get their boy silently into the back of the Suburban. But, not everyone reacted the same way, some weren't able to overcome their fight or flight response with rational thinking. This wasn't the first time it had happened, and Tyler was confident he could inflict a painful muscle wound without seriously jeopardizing their prize. Oh, and the silencer helped. Stupidly, the kid kept trying to fight, and he had to get out of his seat to help Don and offer the kid a little more persuasion. He liked his spunk, though, it would come across great on film. "The viewers will love the fight in him," Tyler thought as he and Don tossed the blond into the back. Fortunately, they had installed a small camera on the rear view mirror to capture any particularly good scenes, like this one. Often if the footage came out great, they would edit it to lead into the real material—proof of its authenticity.

Judging by the silence coming from the back, Tyler assumed the kid had passed out. "All that fighting comes at a cost," he thought. "If he had just paced himself, he could probably still be screaming and annoying the fuck out of me right now. Ha." He opened the glove compartment and pulled out the supplies they kept there for occasions like this one: cotton, large bandages, medical tape, rubbing alcohol, and gauze. He collected the items and turned in the seat, "You want to get him cleaned up, Jared?"

Jared sat in the back seat behind Tyler. At 28, he was the youngest member of the group by almost 10 years, and he knew he was the odd man out. He was different than the other three. Don was in this for the money. Tyler and Johnny, for the money and the fucking. Jared was in it for the boys, he loved these boys. Jared knew he was different almost as soon as he understood what sexuality was. His best friends in middle school and junior high were other boys, but he enjoyed the time they spent together in ways he couldn't explain. He felt funny when they touched, even just a hand on the shoulder or a pat on the back. As he got older, he realized he was lusting after them, and that's when he knew he was gay. He never told everyone, but everyone in high school already knew. They picked on him and teased him, shoving him into lockers, calling him disgusting names, and sometimes even threatening him. He had been scared, but more than anything he was desperate. Like any other teenage boy, he wanted sex, and it was impossible for him to get it.

There were a few other gay boys in school, and sometimes Jared would hang out with them and kiss them and sometimes play with them. But what he really wanted was what he couldn't have. He watched the football players changing in the locker room after gym class. Their hard bodies, sculpted so differently than his own, made him fidget with discomfort. He would avert his eyes and try to hide the rising embarrassment in his shorts. But there was nowhere to escape the constant torment. Even in the halls he couldn't help but examine how their asses looked in their jeans, their varsity letter jackets covering broad shoulders, well-fitting t-shirts taut against defined chests. And it wasn't just the way they looked, it was their confidence, their smiles. They were everything he wasn't, and he longed for them, no matter how much they ridiculed him.

When Jared met cousins Tyler and Johnny four years ago, their business was failing. They were running a small time, web-based porn studio out of their apartment that filmed exclusively gay, nonconsensual fantasy. They hired actors, usually in their mid to late 20s, who pretended to be 18, and made them read lines about going to doctor's appointments, or after school meetings with a teacher, or being a coach's pet. The actors would fake reluctance and say "no" a few times before moaning and begging for more, turned to the dark side by the wiles of their older partners. No one would pay for this, because apparently this material was all over the internet for free, and Tyler and Johnny were about to pack it up. Then one day, Tyler caught Jared staring longingly at a high school soccer team practicing on a field across the street from Tyler's apartment. His eyes were trained on one boy in particular, a lean kid with light brown hair and a big smile. Frustrated with his failing business, Tyler turned to Jared, "You like him? We'll get him for you."

That night was the first time they conducted business as they do now. They filmed everything and sold it at an astronomical price to only their very best, most loyal customers under heavy technological security. Knowing they had struck far too close to home, they picked up the very next day and moved out of state. Now, Jared was getting everything he wanted. He wished, so very much, that the boys didn't have to suffer through so much pain at the hands of the others, but he loved them, and this was the only way to get them. He was older now, tall, lean, and quietly strong; they were young and vulnerable, and he could finally have the boys he always dreamed of.

Jared collected the supplies from Tyler and climbed into the back with their new acquisition. He was absolutely beautiful, perhaps the most beautiful Jared had ever seen, with the exception of maybe his beloved first. The boy had light blond hair falling into his eyes, and though they were closed now, Jared knew they were a bluish green. His lips were wide and very full, and his skin was soft and milky white. And his body was perfect—strong, sculpted, and perfect. Jared did his best to clean the wounds on the boy's leg with rubbing alcohol and cotton pads, which sent his baby's eyelids fluttering, then he pressed a thick pad onto each wound, taped them down, and wrapped gauze tightly around. The bleeding had mostly stopped. From the front seat, Tyler called to him, "Clean the blood off of him, Jared. It's fine for him to look roughed up, but we don't want it to look like we're screwing a corpse."

Achingly, Jared ran the cotton pads, dipped in alcohol, over the boy's muscular thigh, down the inside of his knee, to his calf. He pushed up the leg of his shorts to clean underneath them, and his fingers slid further and further up under the mesh until he could feel the strap of blondie's jock. "Not now, Jared, not now," he thought. But he couldn't help but to slide a finger into the waistband of the boy's shorts and jock and gently peel them back, peeking. "Hmm, a natural blond."


	3. Chapter 3

**Warnings in Chapter 1**

**Sorry for the mixed perspective in the third section, for any purists out there. They flip back and forth in the paragraphs. I needed both perspectives, and I didn't think this particular material was important enough to warrant writing it twice without boring you. **

**I'll try to update again tonight if things go well with my other/real work. Hope you enjoy!**

Chapter 3

Shannon Beiste held her head in her hands. With elbows on her desk, she ran her fingers through her short, thick hair and let out a long sigh. She was making an extremely risky decision. A crazy decision, really. If something went wrong, they would certainly lose the game because of her call, but she honestly didn't think they had a chance to win otherwise. "Goddang, Shannon!" she scolded herself, "Every great football coach knows ya don't change yer panties til ya crap em!" And she was a great football coach. She had won five consecutive state championships in Missouri before agreeing to take on this sinking ship in Ohio, and she'd be damned if she wasn't at least going to make a run at this thing in her first year.

They were winning with Finn, but it was almost like they were winning in spite of Finn. He kept fumbling snaps, something about not trusting Karofsky to cover his blind side. And when he wasn't fumbling? Well his completions were hovering right around 50%. Sam, on the other hand, was looking great at practice. She noticed an occasional wince when he let go of a long pass, but it didn't seem to affect his strength or accuracy at all. Shannon had made up her mind, Sam Evans would start at quarterback in the district championship game. Finn would start at wide receiver, and if Sam got in trouble, she could always switch the two back, but she didn't think they could win with Finn throwing the way he was. She wouldn't tell the boys until the last practice before the game. The last thing she needed was her two best players knocking each other out over their teenage egos.

Shannon walked out through the locker room to the field to clear her mind. She had let the boys go at 5:30, and now it was nearing 7:00. The sun had all but set and was turning the western sky a deep golden purple. A shadow by the goal post caught Shannon's eye and she wandered over to explore. A practice jersey and shoulder pads. "Stupid kids," she thought, picking up the musky jersey to see which of her girls had left it. "Number six. Huh. That's Evans. Odd." Shannon knew that Sam went for a run every day after practice, and that he would leave his practice gear on the field to pick up on his way back to the showers. But if she ended practice at 5:30, Sam was always back by 6:15, showered, and out the door with the last of the stragglers by 6:30. He had never carelessly left his gear out on the field over night. Shannon picked up the jersey and shoulder pads and carried them back into the locker room, returning them to Sam's locker. She sat down at her desk and pulled a file out from her drawer containing the physicals and emergency contact numbers for all her players. "Dwight and Mary Evans," she said aloud, punching the numbers into the phone.

A child's voice answered the phone.

"Uh, hi," Shannon said. "Is your mommy or daddy home?"

The line went silent.

"Hello?" It was a male voice.

"Uh, hi. Dwight? Dwight Evans? Yeah, this is Coach Shannon Beiste."

"Oh, hi Coach Beiste. Great win last week."

"Yeah, yeah thanks so much. Hey listen, Dwight, I'm sorry to call during dinner, but has Sam come home yet?"

A pause.

"No. He hasn't. We thought he was at practice late."

"No, no. Hey, I'm sure it's nothing but Sam left his practice jersey and his shoulder pads on the field today. I found them just a few minutes ago."

Silence.

"See, he always goes for a run after practice and leaves his gear on the field, but then he always picks it up on his way back to the showers. It's very unlike Sam to leave the stuff out."

"We'll call some of his friends, I'm sure he's with one of them. And I'll be sure to give him a talking to about leaving things on the field."

"Yeah, that'd be good. Check in with his friends, that's good."

"Ok, Coach Beiste. Thanks for calling, we appreciate your concern."

"Of course. Take care now."

"You too."

Click.

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Dwight Evans felt a tiny pinprick of worry starting to grow in his stomach. He and Mary had assumed Sam had been late at football practice. It was completely out of character for Sam to just run off after school with his friends without calling to tell anyone at home. Especially since they had all moved into the motel, Sam had been extra careful to call and ask his parents if they would need him to watch the kids before doing anything with his friends. "He's a good kid," Dwight smiled at the thought of how much their oldest son had been trying to help. But he wasn't at practice, and he left his gear on the field? That was not like Sam at all.

"I'm scared, Dwight. Where is he." Mary whispered, trying not to alert Stevie and Stacy. It was more of a statement than a question, and the fear in her voice was clear. "I'm sure he's with one of his friends. I'm just going to call a couple of the kids." He replied, not letting her see his concern. He picked up the phone and dialed Quinn Fabray's number; it was the only one he had.

"Quinn? This is Dwight Evans, Sam's dad."

"Oh hi Mr. Evans!" Quinn's cheerful voice came through the line. She was a good girl.

"Quinn, is Sam with you?"

"No? He's not home?"

"No."

"Weird. I'll call Finn, he's probably with Finn and Kurt at their house."

"Quinn? Could I have the number? I'd like to call myself, please."

Quinn read off Finn's cell phone number, and Dwight quickly thanked her and dialed the number for the other teen. Finn hadn't seen Sam since practice, when Sam had asked him if he wanted to go for a run and Finn had declined. Sam went for that run every day, Finn explained, and usually he was back in time to catch a ride home with him or Puck, as they usually stayed late talking in the locker room. But today they hadn't seen Sam, figured he had gone for a longer run, and left for home. Careful to keep his hands and voice steady, Dwight quietly dialed the number for the local police. An officer met them on the front porch of the motel. Stevie and Stacy were already tucked into bed. It was 9:00 at night.

The officer stood jotting notes down on a small pad. "So your son's name is Sam?" he asked, not looking up. "Yes, Sam Evans," Dwight replied. Mary was leaning against one of the rail posts, her arms wrapped around her chest, keeping silent. "And how old is he?" the officer asked. "He's fifteen." the officer's pencil stopped. "Look," Dwight started. "I know you probably get this all the time, but Sam's a good kid. He doesn't just run off. He never came home from football practice, and his coach called us concerned because he left his practice gear on the field. We called his friends and none of them have seen him since then."

"Mr. and Mrs. Evans, I understand your concern," the officer said. "I want to reassure you that 99% of the time, these cases turn out to be nothing. The kid goes out drinking with his friends in the woods, doesn't want his parents to know, and shows up the next morning. I'm sure Sam's a good boy, but sometimes even the good ones do some stupid things. The department's policy on these cases is that we don't investigate until we give the kid 24 hours to turn up. I know that's not gonna help you two sleep tonight, but I promise you, if you haven't heard from Sam by tomorrow night, you call us back and we'll start a complete investigation, ok? Everything's gonna be fine."

Dwight sighed and shook the officer's hand. He knew he was probably right, that 99% of the time nothing was wrong, but the man was right about one thing . . . he wasn't going to sleep tonight. And if Sam walked in hung over the next morning, well, Dwight wasn't sure if he would hug his son or kill him. Probably both. Dwight and Mary sat down on the porch steps, staring silently out into the night. Neither one of them would sleep.

Elsewhere around Lima, Ohio, members of the Glee club and football team's phones were buzzing with the news that new kid Sam Evans was missing.

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At 10:00pm, the grey Suburban pulled onto the dirt path leading to the occupants' secluded house. In the back, their visitor was beginning to stir. Jared ran a hand through the boy's soft blond hair and passed a thumb over his perfect lips. The boy woke up gasping and trembling, his long, shaking fingers reaching for his injured leg. "Shhh, baby. It's best you don't touch that." Jared murmured, taking the boy's hand and pulling it away from the bandages.

Sam looked up at him, dumbstruck, really seeing him for the first time. He was long-faced and gawky, with shaggy black hair and hazel eyes. When the car slowed to a stop, Sam looked through the window at the deep forest surrounding. He had no idea where they were. He looked back to the man sitting with him, sizing up his chances of punching the guy in the face and taking off for the woods. He could probably take this one, but the other three were beasts. He would need to be able to run fast enough to get a head start on the others if he decked this guy. He tentatively tested out his leg, slowly flexing the muscle. The simple movement sent jolts of pain through his whole body, and he threw his head back against the window, clenching his eyes shut and biting into his lip to stop the scream. "No chance," Sam thought in resignation, "I'd get maybe three steps on this thing before they tackle me."

"He's awake back there, Jared?" Tyler called from the front seat. "Yes, Tyler," Jared called, "He's up. He looks like he's ready to bolt again though." He turned back to their prisoner; he really couldn't keep his eyes off of him. Jared reached out a hand to lay on the boy's good thigh, but he pulled away harshly. "Ok, ok" Jared thought, "Take it easy with him, he'll come around." He knew what they had to do, and ultimately, it would break the boy's spirit. Eventually, the boy would just lay there like a dying animal, his pretty eyes void and his spirit too broken to fight. That's when Jared would swoop in to love him and put the pieces back together. And that's when the boy would crave his gentle touches and soothing words, Jared just knew it.

"What's your name sweetheart?" Jared asked, stopping himself from brushing a strand of blond hair out of the boy's eyes. The boy was sitting up now, his knees drawn to his chest to try to cover his exposed body. "Sam," his voice was low and masculine, but with a hint of a tremor. Jared could feel his own body reacting. "That's a nice name," Jared smiled, trying to calm the boy, "And how old are you, Sam?" "Fifteen." Jared could feel the erection pushing uncomfortably at the fabric of his pants. He longed to take Sam by the shoulders and guide him onto his back, press him down onto the cheap rug, and have him right here in the back of the Suburban. But he would fight. And unlike the others, Jared didn't enjoy _raping_ the boys. He did that because he had to, but what he really enjoyed was _making love_ to them, and he couldn't have that yet with Sam.

Sam paid little attention to the man sitting next to him. This dude wasn't in charge of shit, he could tell. "You've got the wrong guy," he called up to the front seat, where the men were starting to undo their seatbelts. They unlocked their doors and came around the back to open up the tailgate. Once again, the gun was in Sam's face, pressed into the vulnerable flesh of his neck, making him tremble. "Oh yeah? Why's that?" the ringleader, Tyler, asked with a smirk on his face. "I don't have any money," Sam looked up at him, his knees still drawn tightly to his chest. "We're homeless, we live in a motel. My parents don't have jobs and they can't give you anything for me." Tyler laughed, "It's ok kiddo, you're going to make us lots of money. What with that blond hair, those lips and that body of yours, you're going to make us tons of money, don't you worry."

Sam was confused as they pulled him from the car, dragging him towards a small house. He was dyslexic and usually got bad grades, but he wasn't stupid, and he was very intelligent when it came to people's emotions. He could always tell when something was wrong with Quinn, even when all her friends were oblivious to it, and he could read Finn like a book. He knew when Quinn's eyes had sparkled that first night at Breadstix that he had won her over. But there was always one thing that flew straight over his head. He had been genuinely shocked earlier in the year when Finn and Puck told him that Kurt had the hots for him. He knew Kurt was gay, and he didn't care. He never cared if dudes were gay because it didn't affect him one way or the other, but he had missed all the obvious signs that Kurt was into him . . . asking him to be his duet partner, coming up to him in the shower, checking out his ass with Mercedes and the other Glee girls. It had all been right there, and he missed all of it.

So now, it was taking Sam a while to piece everything together. "My hair, my body . . . my lips? What the hell does that have to do with any . . ." A moment of shock silenced his thoughts, much like the shock he felt when the guys told him about Kurt. He still wasn't sure he understood, but a pit was beginning to form in the bottom of his stomach.


	4. Chapter 4

Warnings in Chapter 1. This chapter begins to get graphic, so if you don't like that, please stop reading now.

Thanks for the reviews guys! Don't worry, you'll get serious action, just not too much in this chapter. It's coming, though. And we all love Sam, who knows why we like when bad things happen to him. It's like a train wreck, we can't stop looking.

Chapter 4

Sam's feet stumbled out from under him as the two guys in charge pulled him over the first step. Each man tightened his grip under one of Sam's shoulders as he fell, his knees and shins bumping along down each step. It was too dark to see, and he wasn't able to regain his footing before the older men tossed him against a cinder block wall. Crumpling against the wall and sliding down to meet the floor, Sam thought of how fit and strong everyone at McKinley thought he was, and how he was like a toy to these guys.

An overhead light flashed on, momentarily blinding him. His eyes darted around the room. It was a sizeable, unfinished basement with rough walls and smooth concrete floors with a drain in the middle. "Strange," Sam thought. There was a battered and stained blue couch, but it was pushed off to one side of the room and faced in towards a wall. A fragile looking double bed with a wooden frame stood at an odd angle to a corner, as if it had been shoved there to get it out of the way. There was only a single sheet on it, no blanket, no pillows. There was also a large clothes chest and a lot of camera equipment. Through a door at the other end of the room, Sam could see a rudimentary bathroom. "It's weird," he thought, "There's furniture like somebody lives down here, but it's just thrown around. It's not set up like a normal living room or bedroom or anything." The cameras everywhere made him nervous. Seriously nervous.

Sam noticed the beardy man fiddling with a camera on a tripod, and the other three standing around it talking. He looked at the door. It was just up the stairs, maybe twelve of them. Without even thinking, he sprung towards the steps, flying up them as he stumbled over his feet. He clawed for the next step and had almost pulled himself back up to his feet when he felt a massive body crash into him, smashing his face into the next step. He felt his stomach drop out and a wave of nausea hit him as every nerve in his body throbbed and screamed. A strangled sob escaped his lips as shaking fingers reached for his nose. When he removed them, they were dripping blood. A heavy arm wrapped under his stomach and lifted him, carrying him back down the stairs. "Shit, Johnny, go lock that for me, I forgot to."

Tyler set Sam on his feet. Sam noticed that the man was only a few inches taller than him, but built much, much bigger. "Such a shame we're gonna have to tie you up, kiddo, but you keep misbehaving. You're a slow learner aren't you, Sammy? It is Sam, right?" Sam just stared at him. "I shot you, I broke your nose, I just don't know how to make you learn. How do your teachers do it?" Tyler asked with a sneer. "Do you think you understand this time, Sammy?" Sam's tongue snaked out over his lower lip. "Yes sir," he mumbled. "Good," Tyler said, and drove his fist into Sam's gut, sending him collapsing to his knees, retching. "Let's just make sure of that." Sam wrapped his arms around his stomach and let his forehead sink to the floor, grounding him and steadying him against the pain.

He heard scraping on the floor. Without removing his forehead from the floor, he flicked his eyes out to the left. Jared and Johnny were moving the blue couch into the center of the room while the bearded man, Sam hadn't heard his name yet, adjusted the lens on one of the cameras. "This is so, so messed up," Sam thought, as he felt tears beginning to prickle behind his eyes. He didn't understand what was happening to him, or why. A couple hours ago he was a normal kid. He liked comic books, and football, and singing, and playing guitar. He was the new kid in town, and he got slushied once by his offensive linemen, but he was making lots of friends and starting to get some serious respect from his coach and his teammates. He was dating the prettiest girl in school. Yeah, she was a little messed up sometimes, but he knew he could make her better, and he told her he was gonna marry her someday. She was wearing his ring. His biggest worry was how to beat out his best friend for the starting quarterback spot. And now? Sam didn't know what was happening, or what these jerk offs wanted from him, but he was hurting, hurting so badly, and he had this horrible, cold feeling that he wasn't going to see his family or Quinn again.

Sam blinked back tears as he felt Tyler and Johnny tower over him. "Mecca's the other way you idiot," Tyler scoffed. Sam raised his forehead from the floor, looking up at him, confused. "Come on, you've had enough time to say your prayers." Rough hands pulled him to his feet. Johnny disappeared behind him with a roll of duct tape. His hands were wrenched behind his back, and he felt the cool tape on his skin. It wound around and around his wrists until he felt his fingers start to tingle. He could feel his heart beating out of his chest, adrenaline pumping. Every instinct in him told him to fight, fight, because this might be your life, but he was in so much pain. If they were going to kill him now, well, they were going to do it, and he didn't need another broken bone to prolong the agony.

Tyler touched his pointer finger to Sam's full lips, gently pressing down on the lower. "Are you scared, Sammy?" Sam lowered his eyes, blond lashes fluttering down to hide the shame in them. "You want me to do his mouth, Tyler?" Johnny asked from behind him, holding up the roll of tape. "Nah, I think we'll listen to him scream," Tyler said, flashing a crooked grin. Johnny shrugged his shoulders and tossed the tape over onto the chest. Sam looked over to Jared, who was fidgeting in the corner. "So this is it," Sam thought. "Great, I'm gonna die with these guys. My four best friends, Tyler, Johnny, Jared, and bearded dude. Shit. Fuck, this isn't funny." The morbid humor was doing nothing to lessen his terror.

Sam locked eyes with Jared. Jared had been the nicest to him, and if he had any chance of getting out of this, it was him. He caught Jared's attention. He was sure Jared could see the terror in his eyes, and without saying a word, begged for mercy. For a moment, Jared's hazel eyes met Sam's and seemed to melt. Then they flicked away with what Sam thought looked something like shame. Jared started to unbutton his shirt. "What the fuck?" Sam's mind began to reel furiously. He blinked and looked around him. Tyler and Johnny, too, had removed their shirts and were pushing their pants down past their knees. Three shirts, three pairs of pants, and three pairs of boxers were tossed to the side, next to the chest, and suddenly, Sam was standing in the center of a ring of naked men. He tried not to look down as they closed in on him, but, "Jesus Christ, they're all, they're getting . . . oh God."

"Go ahead, Jared," Tyler said in a low voice, his hands finding their way to Sam's shoulders. Sam felt warm breath on his back, then a pair of lips on his shoulder blade, then hands on his hips. He squeezed his eyes shut. The lips on his shoulder inhaled sharply as the hands pushed down his gym shorts. Sam turned his head towards the mouth on his shoulder. He couldn't turn far enough to fully see Jared's face, but it was a haze in his peripheral vision. "Please don't do this," Sam whispered. He knew Jared heard him and could feel his embarrassment. But thumbs slid into the waistband of his jockstrap and slid it down his hips, the fingers tracing it down his legs until it fell to the floor at his feet. A hot blush rose in his cheeks. One of Jared's hands cupped Sam's ass, and the other snaked around his waist to brush fingertips over his abs. Jared's lips found their way to the back of Sam's neck. "God, Ty, he's perfect," Jared breathed into his neck. He felt something . . . hard, pressing against the back of his leg. Sam wanted to die.

"Ok, ok, Jared. Later. It's business time!" Tyler said, clapping his hands together. "Don, you ready?" The bearded man, well, Don now, nodded, setting up the tripod camera behind the couch. "Ok, Sammy," Tyler said, lips curling into a smirk, "It's show time."

Tyler dragged Sam by his duct-taped wrists over to the blue couch, now positioned in the center of the bare room. Sam tried to struggle, but he was too dumbstruck to really fight. Tyler lined him up behind the couch and pushed hard on Sam's back, forcing him to bend over the couch's back at the waist. He tried to pull himself up, but his face was stuffed into the couch, and he couldn't use his arms for leverage. A foot forced its way between his and kicked harshly in each direction, forcing his feet apart. Sam heard a whistle behind him as his legs were spread wide, and he squeezed his eyes tight, trying to prevent the tears of his shame from spilling.

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Tyler whistled as he spread Sam's legs. Their teenage muscle hunk was bent over the couch, hands taped, body exposed and vulnerable. Sam's ass was small, but well-muscled and firm, and the cheeks spread on their own when Sam's feet were forced apart, revealing Tyler's prize. God, he loved this fucking job. "Ok, boys. Let's take him for a test run," Tyler said, nodding to Don, who turned on the camera positioned just off Tyler's hip and behind Sam. Jared and Johnny stood huddled just over Tyler's left shoulder, eyes glued, slowly stroking their already throbbing cocks.

Tyler dropped a hand to Sam's ass, and the boy bucked at the touch. He gave the kid's cheek a pat and a squeeze. "What a great, great body," he thought. "Gonna have to give Johnny a bonus for picking this one out." His fingers crawled between the boy's legs, and he gently pressed the pad of his finger to the pink bud. It didn't budge. Tyler pressed harder. Still nothing, but he noticed the boy was beginning to sweat and twitch. Finally, Tyler gave his finger a hard thrust and succeeded in driving it into the boy's hole almost nail deep. The kid yelped and Tyler's finger was promptly forced out. Tyler chuckled to himself. Too tight for a finger, huh?

"Ok, boys. We've definitely got ourselves a virgin!"


	5. Chapter 5

**Warnings: Extremely graphic chapter, do not read if you are underage or squeamish. If you like the story but don't like violent material, you can skip this chapter, and there will be nicer, gentler smuttiness (alone time with Jared) coming up. For those of you who are into it, enjoy! I'll try to update tomorrow.**

Chapter 5

Quinn Fabray couldn't sleep. She tried everything—reading, putting her TV on the weather channel, listening to soothing music, not counting sheep because some idiot made that up, but everything else. But every time she slid off into a fitful slumber, a nightmare would wrench her from sleep and she would wake up with a sheen of sweat breaking across her chest. She looked at her clock. Twenty minutes had passed since she checked it last. Throwing back the covers with a long sigh, she padded across her room to her dresser. Sifting through one of her drawers, she found what she was looking for—Sam's blue t-shirt, the one he had been slushied in the day she rescued him. One day, when they were making out and cuddling on her bed, she revealed to him that she loved that shirt because it reminded her of how they met. Giving her one of those gigantic, dopey grins that made his eyes crinkle up like crescent moons, Sam slipped the shirt up over his head and gave it to her.

Quinn had to admit, the sight of his perfectly muscled body took her breath away and made her cross her legs a bit tighter, but she checked herself. "If you think, Sam Evans, that giving me your shirt as a present is going to get you to second base, you've got another thing coming," she warned with mischief in her eyes. His eyes widened, and he shook his head furiously. God he was cute. And God, forgive her, but she loved teasing him. She eased him onto his back again and slipped one of her knees over his waist, lowering herself to straddle him in her Cheerios skirt. He clenched his eyes shut and moaned against her mouth as she brought her lips back to his, her tongue sliding over his lips. She looked back to see his sneakered feet, hanging off the end of the bed, paddling back and forth rapidly. Inside, Quinn laughed, she could tell his boy brain was trying so hard not to go into overdrive. She didn't even scold him for the hardness she could feel pressing between her legs.

Now that stupid t-shirt was all Quinn had to comfort her. She pulled off her nightgown and tossed it aside, slipping into her boyfriend's cotton shirt. On her shorter frame, it just brushed the tops of her thighs. Quinn inhaled deeply; it smelled like him. It smelled like fresh boy—soap, Old Spice, and a hint of masculine musk. She crawled back into bed, burrowing her face into the neck of the t-shirt. Something was very wrong. She imagined Sam hurt somewhere. Maybe he had fallen and broken his leg on his run, and now he was out in the woods somewhere alone, with no one looking for him. He wasn't off drinking somewhere. She and Finn had called everyone he could possibly be with, everyone he knew at the school he had only spent a few months at. Artie had suggested that maybe he went home-home to see his old friends. But without telling his parents? Tennessee was hours and hours away by car, and Sam didn't have one. Something was wrong.

Quinn looked at her clock again. It was 2:00am. She hoped that wherever Sam was, he was safe and asleep, and not in any pain. She couldn't admit it to him, but she kinda loved that boy. She closed her eyes, hoping that this time, the nightmares would stay away.

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"Everything's all set back here, Ty. The film looks great," Don stated. The stationary camera would catch 100% of the action from that angle, and it had to be perfect, since they only had one shot at it. Don would then catch everything else with a handheld camera. Then they would edit the material together to make it more varied and interesting, and make sure they had all the shots they wanted. Once they were sure the product was good, then they could get rid of the kid. It was always an intense few days, but the longer they kept the kid, the riskier the situation was. The cops were usually generous enough to give them a one-day head start before they even started looking for the kid, and then after that they usually fumbled around asking neighbors and local drug dealers, canvassing the woods, and doing other generally useless things. Tyler considered them lucky; if their operation focused on teenaged girls, surely the FBI would be after them by now. But teenaged boys? Some local yokel detective was out asking a 22-year-old pot dealer if he ever sold to the kid in the picture. They always returned the kid to where they found him to keep off their trail, and sometimes they threw a bag of crack with the kid's body. Voila, case pretty much closed. "I am a fucking genius," Tyler gloated to himself, "And for my effort, I get to tap this."

Tyler looked down at the body spread and exposed before him. The boy's pink virginity was just begging for him. It didn't even look like a hole yet, just a small pink mark on otherwise milk-white skin. That would change soon enough. He ran his fingertips over it one more time, feeling the boy shudder and tense again at the touch. "Ok, Don. We're ready," Tyler nodded to Don, who turned on the handheld camera. Tyler looked down. The kid had buried his face in the sofa cushions. Reaching down, Tyler fisted his hand in the mess of blond hair, yanking the kid up so his face was inches from the camera. He yelped and struggled, the entire weight of his upper body held up by his hair. By far Tyler's favorite shot, whenever he looked back over the film, was always the shot of the kid's face as he was penetrated for the first time. They were all different, but all delicious.

"Hey everybody, this is Sam," Tyler spoke loudly for the camera, holding Sam's head up so their viewers could get a good look. "Sam is fifteen, and we found him at football practice outside his high school in Ohio. Say hi to everybody at home, Sammy." Sam just swallowed and tried to look away. "Sammy," Tyler demanded, giving his hair a yank, "Do you want me to pop that cherry with the gun? No? Then say hi to all the nice men at home." "H-h-hi," the kid whispered, barely audible. The trembling lips and the terror in his blue-green eyes were going to make the perfect shot. "Sam's a feisty kid, sorry we had to rough him up. But I'm sure you can see past the broken nose and black eyes and tell that he's a real beauty."

"Ok, Sammy, time to become a man."

Tyler pressed the head of his cock against the tiny pink button, grabbed Sam's hips, and shoved with all his strength, bearing down with his entire weight. These well-muscled virgins were all the same. Their bodies would hold out for five, maybe six seconds, rejecting even constant, back-breaking force. Then, the muscle would give out and slide open just a bit, and the force of the thrust would drive Tyler hilt-deep into them in one movement. So when Tyler pushed harder and harder and still wasn't getting anywhere with Sam, he knew that if his just kept up that heavy pressure a little bit longer . . . "Yessssssssss, there it is." Tyler felt that ring of tight, intense muscle slip and give just that little bit of vulnerability he needed. Driving past it, Tyler felt his entire cock slide into the kid in a second, and he was fully inside, the kid's body gripping him like a vice.

For a second, the kid tensed up but was silent. His brows knitted tightly, eyes opening wide in shock, and lips falling open to inhale sharply. For just a moment, the shock and terror of the situation paralyzed him. Then his body took over. He began bucking and convulsing wildly, trying to shake off the agonizing intrusion. His eyes clenched shut and he grit his teeth, screaming through them. Tearing out tufts of blond hair, he managed to wrench himself free from Tyler's grip on his head and face-planted back into the sofa. The blood from the kid's nose was dripping into the couch as he threw himself back and forth.

Tyler, too, was having a difficult time getting control of himself. The kid was tight. Way too fucking tight. So tight that it was actually hurting his dick. He slammed his fist down on the kid's back, "Let go." Then again and again and again. "Let go let go let go, you little fuck!" But the kid was in his own world and didn't really seem capable of relaxing his body. So Tyler took a deep, shaky breath, ran a hand through his short hair, and steadied himself. When he regained his composure, he leaned down, wrapped his arm around Sam's waist, and began to thrust into him violently. The kid's shoulders bounced off the couch in time to Tyler's thrusts. His writhing was beginning to slow, like he was adjusting to the pain, letting Tyler establish a rhythm with him.

After fucking him for about fifteen minutes, Tyler felt like he was comfortably in control of himself and the kid. He motioned for Johnny and Jared to join him: "Ok guys, have at it." The two were stroking themselves and gasping, trying to work themselves slowly so as not to push themselves over the edge too fast. Tyler knew they couldn't help it, the kid was hot as fuck. Tyler pulled out of him and patted Sam's lower back, "Go ahead Johnny, kid's perfect now. I loosened him up for you." Johnny positioned himself behind Sam, making sure the camera still had the right angle. He gripped Sam's hips and began pumping into him rabidly, faster than Tyler had. They heard a grunt from the kid at Johnny's entrance, but other than that he was silent, his body slack.

Tyler looked down at himself. "Jesus Christ," he breathed. His erection was streaked with bright red blood. He came around the couch to where Jared was toying with the kid, alternating stroking his face with slapping him. Tyler grabbed his hair and pulled him up again. The bridge of his nose was swelling, and bruises were starting to extend out under both eyes. "Clean it up," Tyler demanded. "Wh-what?" Sam choked. He didn't understand anything that was happening. Tyler pointed down, and the kid's eyes followed, widening, clearly horrified at the sight of his own blood.

"Suck."

"I-I-I can't," the kid sputtered. "You can't? Or you don't want to. Because I think you want to, don't you Sammy."

"Please don't do this," he whispered, looking up at Tyler with wide eyes. Those green eyes sparkled with forming tears. The eyes closed and a tear spilled out, gliding swiftly over his cheek as Tyler lowered the kid's face towards his cock. Behind the couch, Johnny and Jared were switching off thrusting into his now well-worn ass, and a particularly strong thrust brushed Sam's lips against the head of Tyler's cock. Tyler moaned at the feeling of the soft lips as the kid shuddered away from him in revulsion. Tyler reached down and lightly pinched the bridge of the kid's nose, setting off a strangled cry. The trembling lips parted slightly, and Tyler eased himself into Sam's mouth, moaning at the wetness. He held Sam's head with both hands and pushed himself between those wide, wet lips, now coated in blood. Tyler hissed in pleasure. "God he's fucking perfect," he thought, feeling the kid retch as he pushed past his gag reflex into his throat. He held him down until the body beneath him began convulsing again, and kept holding him there until he began to pass out. He pulled Sam back up long enough to let him gasp in a few breaths, then shoved him back down. All of the blood was gone, now in the kid's mouth, on his lips, and smeared on his cheeks. Tyler was so close.

Tyler looked back to his friends as he held the blond head down on his dick, suffocating him. Jared was pumping away inside Sam, and his eyes were rolling back in pleasure. Tyler knew he was on the brink. "Come on Jared, breed this bitch," he commanded. Jared gripped tightly at Sam's hips and bent his body to lay his chest on Sam's back. His thrusts slowed and deepened, and with a final, deep jerk, Jared was the first to pump his seed deep into the boy's used body. Johnny quickly replaced him and began to drive himself towards orgasm.

Meanwhile, Tyler was choking the kid on his swollen cock. Sam had given up and collapsed, and was now hanging between the two men on either side of him like a limp doll. Johnny had a foot up on the back of the couch and was bucking into him wildly, moaning as he followed Jared and shot his load into Sam's ass. Tyler picked up his head and the kid gasped, choking in a few gulps of air. "You have a girlfriend Sammy?" Tyler asked, using one hand to hold up the blond head and the other to pump himself.

Delirious, Sam looked up at Tyler and nodded.

"What's her name, Sammy?" Tyler taunted.

"Uh, it's Qui . . . Katie. It's Katie."

"How do you think Katie's gonna feel about her hot boyfriend being a cocksucker? You think she'll like that, Sammy? Think she'll like that you used those pretty lips and swallowed my cock like a slut? Think she'll like knowing her boyfriend loved getting his ass pumped full of cum? Don't worry Sammy. After you're gone, I'll tell Katie you moaned like a whore."

With one final pump of his hand, Tyler came hard on the boy's face, shooting over those beautiful lips and pretty eyes. He held Sam's face up for the camera and smeared the sticky mess into his hair. Then he dropped the kid's face into the couch. With no one to hold him in place, the boy let himself slide over the couch, down onto the cushions. He curled his knees up to his chest and buried his face against his knees, facing into the back of the couch. "Tough little fucker, I'll have to make him cry tomorrow," Tyler thought. "It would be great to have a shot with the sweet thing sobbing so hard he coughs and chokes."

Still naked, Tyler padded over to the corner of the room and pulled out a high, rectangular table. Johnny pulled Sam up to his feet and used a pocketknife to cut away the duct tape from his wrists. Sam was too broken to fight or run. Johnny led him over to the table and picked him up, laying him on the table on his stomach. He duct taped each of Sam's ankles to a leg of the table, then moved onto his wrists, doing the same. If he tucked his chin into his chest, Sam could just about rest his head on the edge of the table. Across the room, Tyler was fishing around inside the chest. He pulled out a large, silver object with a long extension cord and plug attached.

Walking around behind Sam, he examined the damage. The kid was a mess. He was torn open pretty badly, and blood and semen dripped down the backs of his legs. But it didn't stop Tyler from stuffing the silver vibrator into the abused hole, plugging it in, and turning it on high. The kid barely flinched as the toy vibrated harshly in his body. He had given up. Tyler let the camera run for a few minutes, then checked the time on it. They had gotten a good hour and a half of footage. "Perfect." They would add some scenes later with some interesting extras, but most of their major work was done. He flipped off the lights, and he and his three buddies went back up the stairs, locking the door and leaving the kid to his thoughts.

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Sam felt that silver thing enter him, and his insides were shocked when it started buzzing away, but he was too tired to care. He was void. He wasn't really sure if he was human. If he was, he didn't remember who he was supposed to be.

He cradled his head as best he could against his arm and fell into a delirious sleep.


	6. Chapter 6

**Warnings in Chapter 1. This is a mostly innocuous chapter, no extremes. I really like writing the psychology, so I hope you guys enjoy this chapter. I really appreciate your reviews! I know this material isn't for everyone, but it's good to know that there are a few others out there who are enjoying it.**

Chapter 6

It was 7:00am, the start of the school day at McKinley High, and Finn Hudson and Quinn Fabray sat in the guidance counselor's office. Ms. Pillsbury sat at her desk with Mr. Schu behind her, and Coach Beiste paced along the perimeter of the room. Sam Evans hadn't come home over the night, and he didn't show up for school in the morning. Shannon had gone directly to Will with her concerns, and he pulled the kids out of homeroom, convening in Emma's office. "Finn, Quinn," Mr. Schuester started, "Whatever you know about Sam, whatever it is, you're not going to get in trouble, but you need to tell us." Finn and Quinn shot a look at each other. Finn spoke for both of them, holding his hands up in desperation.

"Really, Mr. Schu, we told Sam's dad everything we know. And then we told Coach Beiste, and now you. We really don't know what happened to him. He was going running. Puck and I showered and talked like we normally do, Sam never showed up. He was kinda stressed out, he wanted me to go running with him and talk about Quinn."

All eyes in the room turned to Quinn. "Quinn?" Emma asked.

Quinn's eyes widened. She wasn't sure what Finn was talking about, she and Sam weren't having any problems in their relationship. Sam wore his heart on his sleeve. He had told her within weeks of meeting her that he loved her, and he even got down on his knees to propose to her with that silly promise ring. It was almost like he held his heart outside his body; he wasn't afraid to expose himself like that. But Quinn couldn't do that, not after last year. She kept her heart buried deep and only occasionally allowed glimpses of what it was feeling. Last year she had given herself away too easily, and she swore she would never do that again. So yeah, Sam probably felt like he cared about her way more than she cared about him, but that was just something that went with dating her. He would have to wade through that if he wanted to be with her. But Quinn didn't consider that to be "relationship trouble." Besides, it wasn't true that he cared more than she did. She wasn't playing hard to get, this was just her reality.

"I honestly don't know anything, Mr. Schu. Sam and I are fine. The last time I saw him was in the choir room yesterday, and then his dad called last night."

Quinn's lip began to tremble and her hands began to shake. She could feel tears beginning to form under her eyes. "No," Quinn thought. "No. I'm stronger than this. I'm going to be strong. Don't let them see you weak and scared like this." Finn reached out and took Quinn's hand between his own, squeezing gently. She looked at him with gratitude in her eyes. As much as a doof as he was, he really was a strong person.

"Finn," Coach Beiste stopped pacing and leaned against a bookcase, her eyes hard. "You and Sam weren't fighting were you?"

"Fighting?" Finn repeated, genuinely confused.

"About the quarterback spot."

"Oh. No, we weren't fighting. I mean, Sam told me he was gonna fight me for the spot. NOT like fight, fight," Finn panicked and back pedaled. "Like fight me for it on the field, you know, try to beat me out for it. I just told him to bring it."

"Finn," Coach Beiste said, her voice low, "If something happened between you and Sam, you need to tell us. You won't get in trouble, but we need to know."

"Nothing happened! I didn't do anything to Sam!" Finn shouted, looking like he was about to burst into tears himself. "I can't believe you guys think I did something to him! Like, are you kidding? If we got in a fight, Sam could kick my ass. You'd be looking for my body in the woods, not his!"

The room fell silent. The three teachers' mouths opened in shock. A dam broke somewhere inside Quinn and she sprinted from the room, the light tapping of her flats the only sound in the empty hall. Will shot a look at Finn, who sat with his hand covering his mouth, before darting out in the hallway after Quinn. He caught up with her and threw his arms around her. She gasped and balled her hands up into small fists against Will's chest, then buried her face and began sobbing into him. Will held her and smoothed her hair. "Shhhh," he whispered to her as she choked and coughed on sobs.

When she had stopped shaking, Will slid his back down a row of lockers, plopping himself on the floor. He patted the linoleum next to him, and Quinn did the same. She couldn't look at him. "Quinn," Will said in a firm voice, "Sam's not dead. He's only been missing a few hours. This is all a big joke that we can't see because we love him and are worried about him. You'll see. When he turns up, we're all going to laugh about this." Quinn nodded, wiping her nose with the sleeve of her cardigan.

"Yeah, I know. I know you're right. It's just that I had nightmares all last night. As soon as I found out he hadn't come home, I felt sick to my stomach, like something terrible happened to him. And then Finn just put it in words."

"I know, Quinn. When people say things like that, they don't say them because they're trying to be funny or trying to hurt other people. They say it because they're afraid too and their fear blurts out in words. Finn's scared, too. We're all scared. But I know in my heart, way deep down, that Sam is fine. I'll bet you $20 bucks that there's a comic book convention somewhere today, and that Sam ran off to it. He's gonna come back tonight with his hair dyed blue like an Avatar, and he'll be shocked that we were all worried about him."

Quinn snorted back a laugh and grinned, finally looking at her teacher. "You're right, Mr. Schu. Thanks."

"No problem, Quinn. And hey, if you get upset sometime today, the choir room will be open. Just go ahead in and sing about whatever you're feeling, even if there's no one to listen. You know it's the best medicine!"

Quinn lifted herself from the floor and brushed off her skirt before heading back to class. Will remained on the floor. A comic book convention? Yeah, maybe. It was possible. But then why did he leave his gear on the field?

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Sam woke up to a searing pain gripping his body. He groaned and opened his eyes. It was still dark, and he couldn't tell whether he had slept for eight hours or eight minutes. Or eight years for that matter. His head was groggy, and he couldn't quite wrap his mind around where he was or what had happened. His neck was painfully stiff and he stretched it, producing a rapid series of popping noises. Sam froze. "Please don't be broken, please don't be broken." He moved his head slowly, testing it out. Not broken.

Testing his arms and legs, he found himself immobilized. He tried to focus. He could feel the stickiness of the tape around his wrists and ankles and remembered being bound to the table. As his eyes began to adjust to the low light, he noticed a small pool of blood on the floor below his face. It looked dry. To be sure, he gingerly rubbed his nose against the edge of the table. No blood. His nose was sore and produced a dull ache, but it wasn't that sharp, nauseating pain like when it was first broken. The same was true of his leg. It throbbed, and it felt insanely hot and stiff, but it wasn't making his stomach drop out like it was yesterday. Was it just yesterday? Sam felt like it had been years since he took off on that jog after practice. "Stupid," he thought, "Should'a just taken the day off like Finn said. So, so stupid."

Sam tried to stop thinking and just rest. But in the silent room, he became acutely aware of a steady humming noise. A wave of dread struck him as, for the first time, he focused on the horrific pain between his legs. It felt like someone had ripped his body open with their bare hands and left his insides splayed. And this . . . thing, was still pumping away inside the raw wound. Shame washed over him as he recalled with precise clarity everything that happened last night.

"So I guess I'm gay now?" he thought with gut-wrenching shame. His teenaged mind didn't understand anything about what it meant to love a man, or to desire one. Where he came from in the South, if you had sex with another guy, that made you gay. His dad would be so ashamed. If he ever got out of this place, his parents would never want him back. Not once they saw how disgusting he was. And Quinn. Oh God, Quinn. The guy had said it last night as he came all over Sam's face, marking his territory. She would never love him, not now. Not now that he was a . . . a cocksucker. That was the word Tyler had used. The word felt foreign to Sam. He didn't use dirty words, especially not hurtful ones like that.

He would never have dreamed of calling Kurt something so ugly. The thought never even crossed his mind. But as the shame and loathing deepened, he tried them out on himself, "Queer. Faggot. Cocksucker." Each one was like a self-inflicted wound. He tried again, "Faggot whore, faggot whore, faggot whore." He said them over and over in his mind until he felt like they were part of him, the core of his being. He didn't even recognize himself. The rage and loathing tore at him until he was screaming inside. He had to get that thing out of him.

He tried to grip at it internally, but was shocked when he found he had no power there whatsoever. It was as if there was nothing there. "God," he thought, trembling, "Is it that bad?" Grunting, he threw all his weight to one side of the table, as best as he could while tied down. He felt the table budge. He leaned and threw himself again, succeeding in getting the table to rock. Leaning with the momentum of the table as he rode it side to side, he heaved his body as hard as he could. The table wobbled on two side legs, and Sam had that horrible, stomachless feeling of tipping over the edge before he came crashing to the floor on his side.

He landed hard, jamming his shoulder and crushing his injured leg between the table and the floor. The force of the blow to his leg made him woozy, drunk with pain. But the fall had ripped the cord from the wall, and the toy was torn from his body. Sam emitted a choked laugh, something between a laugh and a cry, before passing out.

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Tyler, Johnny, Don, and Jared were sitting around the kitchen table, eating scrambled eggs and reviewing their film from the previous night when a loud crash downstairs sent them all running. What the fuck was he doing down there? There were no windows, no other doors, and as far as Tyler could remember, they had left him pretty incapacitated.

Tyler actually had to hold back a laugh when he got to the bottom of the stairs. The kid was passed out, lolling from his side to his back, still taped securely to the table. "You fucking idiot," he said aloud, though Sam couldn't hear him, "You look like a fucking turtle."

He wished they had gotten that moment on film. Not for the members, it would kill the mood, but for himself. He loved the little moments like these. The bloopers of the operation, he liked to think of them. Made him remember why he kept doing this. Besides the money. And the virgin asses.

"Well guys, I guess we don't get to finish breakfast just yet. I guess we'll just start a few minutes early today, since our baby is calling for us. Cut him off that thing, Johnny, would ya? He looks ridiculous." Johnny pulled out the pocketknife and cut away the tape one leg at a time. Don helped him remove the table from the kid, who laid sprawled out on the floor, clearly unconscious. "Kinda makes things easier for us, don't it?" Johnny asked Tyler with a grin.

"Yes it does," Tyler responded. "Yes it does."

With the kid still on the floor, Johnny secured his wrists together with rope. Together, he and Tyler lifted the kid's dead weight up, and, standing on a chair, Jared hooked his wrists to a chain extending from an eye-bolt in a ceiling beam. The kid was probably a little over six feet tall, so with his arms extending over his head, he was only suspended about a foot off the floor. But the suspension wasn't important. They just needed him upright and secured, unable to use his hands to protect him. The pretty blond head hung against his chest, and Tyler gently slapped Jared's hand away as he stroked it. "You can have him later, Jared, I promise. After we get all the footage we need. Ok? Be good. I'm promising you, you'll have him before we kill him."

"Last time you promised, and"

"I know, Jared, I know." Tyler cut him off. "We ran out of time. Look, I know you really like this one, and I promise you, you'll get him." He ruffled Jared's hair. He was the baby of the group, and as much as the other three loved the money, they tried hard to make Jared happy, because they knew he loved the boys.

"Alright, guys. Let's go finish the eggs. The kid can wait ten minutes, I think."

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It was 10:00 in the morning in Lima, Ohio, and Mary Evans had parked herself outside the Lima Police Department. Dwight had tried to convince her to go about her day as she normally would, scouring the town, looking for work. Sam would be home soon, and it would be silly to lose a whole day of job searching; when he got back, they would kick themselves for overreacting and wasting the entire day. After all, they had two other kids to look after, too. But Mary wouldn't listen. Her son was missing, and she would wait outside the police station until they were at least looking for him. Not willing to leave her there alone, Dwight sat in the car with her.

That morning, as they got the kids ready for school, Stacy had asked where Sammy was. Stevie had sensed that something was wrong and hushed her. But Stacy looked up at them with confusion in those big, blue-green eyes. The eyes that were exactly the same as Sam's. Mary was too upset to answer, a silent rage fuming inside her to cope with her fear, so Dwight had lied to Stacy. He told her that Sam was staying over with Finn and Kurt. She liked the two older boys, so he figured that was as good an excuse as any. As he was getting on the school bus, after Stacy had already run to the back with her friends, Stevie turned to his father and said, "Sammy's not really with Finn and Kurt is he." It was more of a statement than a question.

"No," Dwight answered his son honestly.

"Where is he?"

"I don't know, Steven."

"You mean like he's missing?"

"Yes."

Stevie nodded, his eyes darkening, and climbed onto the bus. He was a little soldier, Dwight knew, and he would protect his sister from the information that had been shared with him.

Dwight wasn't sure how he and Mary had raised such amazing children. He certainly didn't think they were better parents than anybody else. Hell, he couldn't even feed his children or keep a roof over their heads. But not one of them had complained when they moved into that dirty room in the motel. Sam had silently sold his guitar to buy bread and sliced cheese to make Stevie and Stacy's lunches, and his job delivering pizzas was actually paying to cover the motel expense. Dwight hadn't been at his new job long enough to qualify for unemployment benefits, and they were really, genuinely struggling. When they couldn't afford the motel anymore, he guessed he would have to take them to the shelter where Sam often lined Stevie and Stacy up for dinner. He couldn't ask Sam to leave school to work more hours, he just couldn't.

He had already seen his oldest son grow up so much in the past year. He remembered a conversation he and Sam had just a year ago. Sam was a freshman, and he was thin and a bit awkward. The boys at school teased him because he was into comic books and sci-fi movies. He had never sung outside his bedroom, and he had never had a girlfriend. He came to his dad, sad because he didn't feel like he fit in. Dwight had put his arm around his son and gave him the best advice he knew, "Be yourself, just be a better version of yourself. Make everyone see how great you are."

Over that year, Sam had grown a lot. He worked himself hard in the gym and got stronger, turning himself into a hell of a football player. He got his grades up a bit, though Dwight knew it was hard for him, and he started putting himself out there with friends and girls. He threw himself into music. He still loved comics, but now he wasn't ashamed of it. When they moved to Ohio, Sam became popular almost immediately; these kids saw the end result of what was a year-long process.

He knew that Sam drank sometimes, and Dwight had seen him kiss his girlfriend when he thought no one was looking. But Dwight knew that his son was still so, so innocent. His eyes still got bright and animated when he talked about Avatar, and he still did his ridiculous impressions. He loved toting his little brother and sister around with him when most kids his age couldn't stand it. Sam was working hard and trying to support his family, but Dwight could tell that he still didn't understand how the world works, and why this had happened to them. And he still got so nervous around Quinn.

Sam was a great kid. About as good a son as Dwight could have asked for. And he hoped that wherever Sam was, he was hanging on. Because Dwight wasn't ready to say goodbye to him yet.


	7. Chapter 7

**Short chapter, but I hope you like it. I'll do a better job of updating this week. Warnings in this chapter for violence, but this is one of the last chapters (until the end) that will be violent. There's some good emotional stuff coming up soon, so keep reading!**

Chapter 7

Sam tried for the fourth time to pull himself free from the hook. He tightened his abs and pulled his knees up to his rib cage, then began slowly rocking backwards and forwards. On a long swing forward, thrust his feet out, hoping the force would pull him free from the wall. He wasn't exactly sure what he was trying to do, but he was desperate to get down. If he stretched himself as much as possible, he could almost touch the floor with his toes, but the fact remained that he was completely vulnerable.

He had woken up suddenly to the throbbing in his leg, but what caught his attention was an extreme stretching sensation in his rib cage. He couldn't quite place the sensation until the fog lifted and he realized he was suspended by his wrists. The pressure made his wrists sore, but it was by far not the worst pain he'd been in in the last 24 hours. What scared him was that he couldn't move. And they were clearly planning something. If they weren't, they would have just left him where he had fallen or stood the table back upright. The door was locked; there was really no need to restrain him, so Sam knew that something was wrong.

Johnny and Tyler were the first through the door, lumbering down the stairs. Johnny was wiping off his mouth with his sleeve, and they were both laughing about something. They seemed like they were in a really good mood. "Maybe now that they have what they wanted they'll let me go?" Sam didn't want to crush the tiny, childish voice in the back of his mind, but his heart knew it wasn't true.

"Heyyyyy!" Tyler started cheerfully, "Look who's up! Our blond little sweetheart." He scratched Sam's abs playfully, just under his belly button . . . "The way you would scratch a dog," Sam thought. Sam shot his good leg out and caught Tyler in the chest with his foot, hitting him hard enough to send him stumbling backwards. He knew the triumph would only last a moment, but he couldn't deny himself that small victory. When he regained his footing, the humor was gone from Tyler's eyes. Now they were black like coal. "You want to play it like that, huh kid."

Sam watched in slow motion as Tyler drew back his massive right fist. It swung forward and upward, painfully slowly, inching closer as Sam tried to brace himself for the blow. He tried desperately to harden his stomach, but couldn't with the way he was stretched. First he just felt skin on skin. Then the fist crushing into him, in farther and farther until he swore he could feel it in his spine. He drew in a sharp breath and tried to pull his knees up to protect his abdomen, but they were pushed down harshly. Johnny and Jared each held one of his ankles as Don quietly flicked the camera on.

The world sped up, back to its normal pace, as fists barreled into his stomach over and over again, too quickly to count. Tyler was grunting and beginning to sweat as he punched his target harder and faster than Sam thought anyone could be capable of. The fervor was clearly beginning to work up Tyler's arousal. Sam felt weaker and weaker. He felt like every organ in his body was on the brink of explosion; he could visualize his stomach disolving into a pinkish red putty floating around in the vacant cavity that was supposed to be his core. "Sick," Sam thought, "You're sick." He wasn't sure if he meant Tyler or himself. The bile began to rise as Tyler beat him closer to injury, burning his throat. He began to retch. He tried to stop it, but his stomach surged in protest. He closed his eyes as he felt it happen.

When he opened them, Tyler's jaw and his white t-shirt were dripping with blood.

Sam's lips were white and trembling. "I-I-I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," he stammered, seeing the rage burning in Tyler's eyes. "P-Please stop hitting me. Please. I can't. I'm sorry, just please. I can't." He felt himself on the verge of whimpering and tried to hold it back but couldn't. He hurt too much. If he could just curl up in a corner somewhere and die, that would be enough. Or just fade into the wall. He never thought he'd beg God for anything. His mom had always told him to ask God politely, but only when it's really important, because God hears us best when we ask with our best manners. But as Tyler unzipped his pants, looking at him like a shark smelling blood, he found himself pleading with God to deliver him from these cold walls and take him somewhere he could be safe and alone.

Tyler took him violently. Sam wondered if the rabid way he was moving could even feel good for Tyler, or if he just got off on the power of it all. It wasn't like before. He wasn't so scared this time. He knew what this kind of pain would feel like. This time, he was just exhausted. He wasn't sure how much more his body and mind could take before they collapsed and left him a shell. As they whipped him with studded belts and strangled him with electrical cord, as they beat him and called him disgusting names, as they each took him more times than he cared to remember, Sam drifted away.

He was standing in the boys bathroom at his new high school with his head in the sink. Freezing, red ice slush was sliding down his stomach into his jeans, and his face stung. But then there were warm fingertips brushing through his hair. That simple touch felt so good that Sam would have left his face in that sink with water flowing over it forever, if that meant she would keep touching him like that. A gentle tug on his hair pulled him up from the water. She had the most beautiful eyes. Not like his. His were bright and excited and childlike. Hers looked at you like she knew, knew everything about the world, and knew about you. He felt that grin tugging at him. He knew he had a wide smile and usually tried to contain it, but not this time. This time he let a gigantic, megawatt smile take over his face. He didn't care that she thought it was too much. He was going to marry this girl someday.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Glee rehearsal was quiet on Tuesday afternoon. As the winners of the duets competition, Sam and Quinn were supposed to be singing lead on the opening number for Sectionals. Before Sam disappeared, the club had started tossing ideas around about what songs to do, but nothing had been decided yet. Minutes earlier, Rachel had suggested that, since they didn't know when Sam would be back to practice the number with Quinn, maybe she and Finn should take over. Nine pairs of eyes had glared her back down into her seat.

"Nothing's wrong with him you know," Rachel murmured stubbornly to Finn. "I heard the police aren't even investigating."

"They can't yet, Rachel, they have to wait 24 hours. But can you please try to be a little sensitive to what everyone else is feeling? Something's definitely wrong. I mean, he didn't come back from his run. If he had gone somewhere, why wouldn't he at least come back and shower before he went? Or at least come back and put his gear away? You don't just go for a jog and run to the airport to go to Vegas for a few days." Finn's brows were knitted. More than he was trying to explain to Rachel, he was trying to work through his thoughts for himself.

"I still don't think . . ." Rachel started, softer.

"Please, Rachel. Look, Quinn's really messed up about it, and to be honest, I am too. He wanted me to go with him. I should've been there with him."

"Oh, Finn," Rachel placed a small hand on his arm and looked up at him with melting eyes. "Nothing happened to Sam, I just know it. And even if you were there, nothing would be different. Except maybe you'd be missing too. You couldn't have helped him."

Finn gave a small nod but continued staring intently out the window.

Across the room, Quinn sat quietly examining a lock of her hair, pruning out the split ends. Trying to focus on anything serious was beyond what she could handle at the moment. She knew most of the others weren't very worried. He only went missing last night, and no one usually panicked when one of them missed a day of school. But they hadn't felt what she felt last night. That sense of complete dread. The nightmares had kept her up most of the night, and as she lay awake, she had painful constrictions in her chest and stomach. Why would she feel that way if nothing was wrong?

That morning when she first woke up from her fitful sleep, she checked her phone. No new texts. She turned on the TV to see if the news would tell her anything about finding Sam. But obviously, there was nothing to report. It was just a teenaged boy who had spent the night out away from home. No news there. After texting Finn and a few others to see if they had heard anything, Quinn decided to call Sam's parents. Mr. Evans answered the phone and informed her that he hadn't come home over the night, and they hadn't heard from him. From the other end of the line, she heard a long sigh.

"Quinn, can I ask you for a favor?"

"Sure, what can I do?"

"Well, the police won't investigate until it's been at least 24 hours, which takes us to this evening. I know Mary will want to stay at the police station until they start, and then we'll need to answer their questions. I really don't want to leave her there alone, if possible."

"You want me to watch Stevie and Stacy?"

"Quinn, if you're busy, I completely . . ."

"No, of course I'll stay will them. Anything I can do to help."

"Thank you so much, Quinn. You don't know how much it means to us."

"I'll be right over after Glee rehearsal. You'll let me know if you hear anything from him before that?"

"Yes, of course. Thank you again."

Mr. Schu ended practice early. No one really felt like singing anyway. Quinn drove to the bus stop and waited for Stevie and Stacy, who arrived a few minutes after she did. Stacy was bouncing and bubbly as ever, but Quinn could detect a sullenness in Stevie she had never seen before. "He must know," she thought. The kids climbed into the backseat of her car, and Stevie directed her the half mile to their home. When she pulled into the parking lot of a dive motel, Quinn assumed that Stevie had gotten mixed up and pulled out her phone to use the GPS. "What's your address, Stevie? We can use the phone to get directions."

"This is it."

"This is what?" Quinn asked, not looking up from her phone.

"This is where we live."

Oh, damn. Quinn gave the kids a bright smile to try to hide her embarrassment at her mistake, but she knew Stevie picked up on it. Stacy took her hand and practically dragged her into the motel, into the tiny room where they all lived. She pointed to the king-sized bed that took up most of the room. "Mommy and Daddy and me and Stevie all sleep here," she giggled, too young to understand that she wasn't on a fantastic slumber party or camping trip. "Sammy has the sleeping bag on the floor, cuz we can't all fit." Stacy seemed thrilled with being on this adventure, but Quinn could see the shame in Stevie's eyes. She and Sam hadn't been dating that long, and she assumed he hadn't told her about the motel because he thought she wouldn't want to be with him if she knew. She felt a tug in her heart. Sure, she was blonde and popular and a cheerleader, but he must know she wasn't that shallow, didn't he?

Stevie quietly sat down at the small desk to work on his homework, while Stacy bounced onto the bed. Quinn flicked on the grainy TV and surfed through a few channels before she found A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving. She climbed onto the bed and rested her back against the wall. Stacy promptly cuddled into her side to watch the movie. All Quinn could see was her perfect little blonde head.

"You better be alright, Sam," she thought. "You better come home."

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Sam woke up to the feeling of fingers brushing along his spine. When they had finished with him earlier in the day, they had dropped him in a heap on the floor, but left him unrestrained. He didn't bother fighting; he didn't care. Lifting himself from the floor, he managed to stumble over to the bed. He drew his knees into his chest, curling his battered body, and laid his face against his kneecaps. He was so tired, and he was grateful to be falling asleep for once instead of blacking out from pain. Now, as he emerged from the deep slumber, he could distinctly feel a finger tracing slowly up and down his spine, one vertebrae at a time.

Sam groaned and brought his hands up to loosely cover his face as his vision cleared and he saw Jared sitting on the bed next to him. Jared gently tugged them away, and Sam was too weak to protest further. Long fingers dipped under Sam's chin and nudged his face up to the light. He winced, clenching his eyes shut, preparing to be hit again. "Please, please don't hit me. Please," his pride was completely shattered, and he no longer cared that he was begging.

"Shhh, baby, relax. I'm not going to hurt you," Jared soothed. He leaned down and touched his warm lips to Sam's forehead. Sam's eyes fluttered open, and he looked up at Jared. His lips were trembling again. "Poor thing, you poor poor thing," Jared doted with sympathetic eyes, "I'm so sorry we had to hurt you. But I'm going to make everything better now, I promise." He brought a hand up to rest on Sam's neck, thumb running over his cheek. Sam winced and cowered, but Jared was patient and continued to touch him gently until the boy gradually uncurled. Jared gasped; the bruising was extensive. He wished he hadn't been a part of harming this perfect baby, and he tried to push the memories from his mind.

"How would you like to take a shower?" Jared asked, and the boy's eyes flitted up. Jared figured that was about as close to excited as he could look. Sam paused for a few moments, then nodded, and Jared held out his hand to help him up. "Come on, let's go get you cleaned up." He led Sam into the small bathroom in the basement. It wasn't much, but in the corner, there was a showerhead and a drain. Jared turned the water on and tested it, making sure it was warm enough. When it was comfortable, he took Sam by the elbow and gently nudged him under it. Sam just stood there, unmoving, letting the water crash down on his head. The warm water matted his blond hair to his face, and the dried blood and semen began to run down the backs of his legs. Jared pulled his eyes away long enough to retrieve some soap and shampoo from a cabinet. He could feel himself getting turned on and didn't want the boy to spook. "Here, Sammy," he said, handing Sam the items, "I'll wait for you outside, ok?"

Sam took the soap and nodded, waiting until Jared closed to door to run the bar gingerly over his body. The hot water was beginning to bring him back to reality, and as much as it stung and ached all over, being clean made him feel closer to human. He scrubbed as hard as he could with just his fingers, trying to get that disgusting feeling of overuse out of his skin. He lathered himself up and rinsed again, just enjoying the feeling in case he didn't get it again any time soon. The shampoo was girly and smelled like strawberries, but he didn't mind. Any clean smell was better than the alternative. The foam turned pink as it mixed with the blood that somehow managed to find its way into his scalp. He was beginning to wonder if there was anywhere he wasn't bleeding from.

Eventually, the water began to cool and Sam realized he must have been standing there for at least half an hour. Turning off the water, he took the towel Jared had left for him and ran it over his hair a few times, making it stick out in every direction in wet clumps. He dried off completely then wrapped the towel around his waist. It wasn't much, but after being naked for most of a day, he felt a little less exposed. Opening the door a few inches, he leaned his head out just a bit to see if anyone else was there. Jared was sitting on the edge of the bed, leaning his elbows on his knees. He had removed his shirt while Sam was in the shower. Sam quickly ducked his head back into the bathroom and closed the door.

"Sammy, come on out, sweetheart. I'm not going to hurt you," Jared called. "I promise. Johnny and Tyler are working. No one's going to hurt you."

"Famous last words," Sam thought, as he took a deep breath, opened the door, and stepped outside.

When Sam stepped out into the room, Jared's breath caught in his throat and his heart skipped a beat. He felt a familiar tugging in his boxers. Jared was sure now that this boy was, without a doubt, the most spectacular beauty he'd ever seen. Even through the welts and the bruising and the broken bones, Jared could just tell. Sam was breathtaking with his blond hair mused and wet, his blue-green eyes timid. Despite his muscular build, he was still slim and taut with narrow hips and broad shoulders. The towel, slung low on his hips and revealing a tiny golden treasure trail, only momentarily hid what Jared knew was underneath it. And those lips, Jared had no words to describe them. The only word that came close was exotic. Those wide, full lips should have ruined his otherwise perfectly designed face, but for some reason they just made him striking. He was the boy Jared wished he could have given his heart away to when he was that age, but he knew it would have never happened. At least he would have his moment now.

"Come on, Sammy. Come sit down," Jared patted the spot on the bed next to him. Sam looked anxious, like a deer about to bolt. "It's ok, baby. All I'm gonna do is hold you. I'm gonna make you feel better. I promise, Sammy." Sam inched closer to him slowly. When he was close enough that Jared could smell the mix of strawberries and warm boy emanating from him, he reached up and took his hand. "That's it, baby," he purred, as he gently tugged Sam down to sit at his side. He slid a hand up Sam's chest to his face, resting on his cheek. "Doesn't that feel good baby? So much better than mean Tyler and Johnny hitting you."

"You hit me too," Sam mumbled. And it was true. Just a few hours ago, Jared was pulling the ends of an extension cord around his neck. Jared's heart wrenched, and he had to fight back tears forming behind his eyes. He had hated every second of hurting his baby, how could he make him understand that? "Sammy, I'm sorry. You know I didn't want to do all those things to you. Let me make it up to you."

Jared laid back on the bed, propping his head and shoulders up with the pillows he had brought down from his own bed upstairs. With arms firmly wrapped around Sam's waist, he pulled the boy down until their bodies were aligned and Sam's head rested on his chest. Sam resisted, but he was too exhausted and numb to really fight. And Jared wasn't hurting him; he hadn't lied yet. Jared buried his nose in the soft blond hair. This was really everything he ever wanted. Sam was warm against his chest, and Jared could feel the boy's heart beating. He looked down. Sam had closed his eyes and was breathing deeply. Jared cupped his face in his hand and ran his thumb over his cheek. "Everything about you is perfect," Jared whispered to the dozing boy.

Sam wasn't asleep, but he had considerably relaxed. He was so confused. He didn't understand how this man could beat and attack him so savagely with the rest of them, and then hold him like a child. When he was little, his mom used to hold him like this and run her light fingertips through his hair. If he closed his eyes and let his mind slip, he could forget for a moment where he was and who he was with.

Jared's heart was so full and his body so heated. He wouldn't survive it any longer if he didn't make love to this boy. Gently applying pressure to Sam's shoulder, he was able to roll the boy onto his back and reposition himself on top. Sam struggled, but Jared used his body weight to hold him firmly in his embrace. "Sammy," Jared breathed hotly against his ear, "Take this off." He reached down between their bodies and peeled away the warm, damp towel, eliciting a whimper from the boy. His fingers brushed greedily over Sam's penis, making Jared groan, but he forced himself to stop. "Savor this," he thought, "Make it last, because this is your one moment with him." He pushed himself up and unzipped his pants, pulling them down to his knees and freeing himself from the tangle of khakis. His erection was tenting in his boxers, and he reached down to slip it through the fly. As he lay back down between Sam's legs, he moaned at the shock of pleasure that came from rubbing his hard member to Sam's soft one.

In his mind, Sam was beginning to panic. "Please not again. Please don't do this to me again," he thought, his mind cycling through those words on repeat. He began slipping away to somewhere safe, leaving his body behind. It was something he had experienced for the first time as Tyler was beating him. Something that had undoubtedly saved him from endless hours of pain.

Jared slipped his hand under Sam's head, gently tangling his fingers in the mess of blond hair. He looked down into his beautiful eyes, but they were void, lifeless. Jared wished it didn't have to be this way. He wished he could look down at his lover and see passion in his eyes that mirrored his own. But this is how it always was, and apparently how it had to be for Jared to get with a boy like this. He leaned down, his lips inches from Sam's, and reveled in the sensation of the boy's warm breath tickling his lips. He couldn't resist it any longer. Closing the last inch of space between them, Jared pressed his mouth to Sam's, sucking and nibbling at his lips. He used his tongue to part those soft lips and explore the boy's mouth, groaning into it heavily. The magic he felt at being so close made him struggle to hold back his orgasm, but he had to make it last. He had to enjoy every minute of it.

He pulled back at looked into Sam's face. His cheeks were flushed, but his eyes were vacant. Jared moved his hot mouth over Sam's throat, sucking at it hungrily, placing gentle kisses where the marks from earlier in the day were beginning to develop. His fingertips traced the way for his lips, down over his collarbone. He devoured Sam's nipples, tugging and chewing until they were ruddy nubs beneath his tongue. He drew a finger down along the line of Sam's abs, now deeply bruised but still incredibly defined. His fingers trailed through the short patch of dark blond hair and briefly traced down his length. Jared wanted nothing more than to taste this boy, the one he felt he must have been waiting his whole life for, but it had to wait. The build up was the torture, but the torture defined his release.

Sam didn't protest as Jared spread his legs. Jared wasn't sure if the boy was even there at all. His body was beginning to tremble, but his eyes were far away. He sucked on two fingers then began easing them into his lover. They slipped in easily. Sam was no virgin anymore. His insides felt warm, slick and, well, squishy. But Jared didn't care. He loved him too much to care. His fingers probed deeper, searching for that perfect spot Jared knew so well. Bingo. His middle finger slid over the small, hard lump, and Sam's body all but leapt from the sheets. He swirled his finger around the spot, occasionally kneading it hard and watched with delight as the boy's cock began to swell and rise. Once he was hard, Jared knew he would be like putty in his hands. He was perfect, and Jared couldn't help but to begin to stroke him with one hand while his other continued to work its magic inside him. He was well developed for his age, with skin the same creamy white as the rest of his body and a blushing pink head. Jared knew Tyler loved to see the agony on a boy's face as he was torn open, but Jared loved the confusion of their arousal. Sam was blinking and biting at his lower lip. Precious.

Jared brought himself back up to cover Sam's body with his own, positioning himself between his legs. Pinning Sam's erection between their stomachs, Jared slowly began to press into Sam. Again, Sam's well-worked body welcomed him with ease. Now that Jared knew where Sam's sweet spot was, he repositioned him so that he drove into it with each gentle thrust, making Sam jump and his cock twitch between them. Jared lowered his mouth to Sam's again, moaning into him as he tried to control his bucking. When he felt himself on the brink, he took Sam's face between both of his hands and gently shook him. "Sammy, Sammy, listen to me," Jared desperately searched for a light in his eyes. "Sammy . . . Sam, I love you. You're everything I've been waiting for my whole life. They're going to take you away from me, but they can never take away what we have right now. I love you, Sammy." Jared cried out as he spilled his seed into his perfect boy.

Slipping out, Jared slid himself down over Sam's hips, finally indulging in his purest pleasure. He sucked the plump pink head between his lips and treasured it with his tongue. The taste of him was pure bliss to Jared, and it was keeping him hard.

"Jared?" came a tiny, childish voice barely above a whisper.

Jared looked up. Sam was dazed and bewildered, his eyes brimming with tears. "What's wrong, Sammy?"

"Jared, please don't."

"Oh, baby. It's going to be so good for you. I want it to be amazing for you. I promise, you're gonna feel so good, you'll love me too."

Jared replaced his lips on Sam's cock and began sliding them down his length. Sam's entire body began to shake. Jared relaxed his jaw to accommodate his entire length and began to move his mouth up and down slowly, getting him wetter and wetter. He cupped Sam's balls in his hand, giving them firm squeezes as he moved faster over his shaft. His lips gripped tightly and he moaned against the hard flesh filling his mouth. He could feel his own release coming again, and he reached down to stroke himself in time with his bobbing on Sam's cock. Sam didn't last long. Clutching his fists into the bed sheet and screwing up his face into a knot, he came hard into Jared's eager mouth. The heat spreading over his tongue was enough to send Jared over the edge, too, and he shot onto Sam's thigh, shuddering.

Jared looked up again, licking his lips clean of the remnants of Sam's orgasm. The tears were now streaming freely down Sam's cheeks. Jared's brows knitted. "Baby, what's wrong?" he asked, with a slight tremor in his voice, worrying that it wasn't as good for Sam as it had been for him.

"I never, I mean, no one's ever . . ." Sam tried, but quickly abandoned trying to explain himself as the tears choked him. It dawned on Jared that no one had even done that for him before, and it was his first time. "Oh, my sweet baby," Jared sighed. Sam lay on his side and drew his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms around them. Jared slipped an arm around Sam's waist and curled himself to the boy's form. He fell asleep to the gentle, rhythmic waves of Sam's sobs.


	9. Chapter 9

**Hey guys, hope you're all enjoying the story. I like this chapter, and I hope you do too. If you decide to leave a review, please let me know whether you think Sam should live or die. Either way, I have multiple chapter plots planned out, so the story will continue. Thanks for all the support!**

Chapter 9

Sam's face was nuzzled against Jared's chest, the older man's arms wrapped around him protectively. From the outside, he looked perfectly relaxed, his lips parted slightly, inhaling deep, even breaths. His eyes were closed, and the light blond lashes fanned evenly over his cheeks. His body curled into Jared's side. On the inside, though, his mind was reeling. He berated his body for betraying him. When they had all done those things to him the first time, it had hurt so badly. He knew his body wasn't made for that, and all he could think about was the pain. But when Jared did it this time, when he used his fingers and rubbed that weird spot, it was like firecrackers were set off inside of him and it made him jump and twitch.

He had been absolutely mortified when his cock began to swell and willed it to go back down, thinking of Finn's mailman, Coach Beiste, his earlier agony, whatever he could come up with. He couldn't understand why his body was doing this. He wasn't gay, he didn't want to be gay. Did this mean he was gay? Everything in his mind was screaming "stop," but his body apparently wanted more. Even when Jared was pumping into Sam, it hurt, but it didn't hurt like the other times. Those were like pure torture. This time, Jared kept driving himself into that spot, and even though the friction against his raw flesh hurt, it felt insanely good at the same time. God, how could he ever live with himself? Everyone would look at him and see the gay on him and treat him like a leper. No girl would ever want him again, especially not Quinn. The great body and good looks that usually drew girls to him, all wasted on a fag and a slut.

When Jared had started to go down on him, he felt the desperation set in. He couldn't come. He just couldn't. It became the final line that couldn't be crossed. If he was going to save himself from this hole he felt himself falling into, he couldn't come. He begged Jared to stop. A couple days ago, a blowjob would have been a gift from God himself. Sam had never done more with a girl than make out, and if he got lucky with Quinn, he got to touch her boobs over her clothes. If Quinn had wanted to do that with him, he would have jumped out of his skin with excitement. But this was just so wrong. It was more than getting off. To Sam, it was his virginity, his innocence, his sexuality, his identity, and his future all swirling together in his clouded brain. If he let this happen, if he succumbed to the rippling waves of pleasure Jared was creating with his lips and tongue, he knew he would never be the same. He would forever doubt himself and ridicule himself for enjoying something he found repulsive. And everyone else would do the same.

The tears came as he felt himself barreling towards a breaking point. He wasn't going to be able to stop. The reality of everything he had been through set in. Before, all he wanted was to get further with Quinn. Now he wished he could go back to things as simple as touching her hair, staring into her pretty eyes, and brushing his lips against hers. He didn't know a thing about how to please a girl, and he knew whatever happened with Quinn, he would stumble through it awkwardly. It used to really stress him out. Now he wished for that innocence back. He wished to not know what it felt like to have a man inside of him, splitting him open. He wished to not know how it felt to have a penis in his mouth, or how it felt to have its seed covering his face. He wished to not know what it felt like to have lips wrapped around his cock, so he could anxiously await that moment with Quinn and daydream about what it would be like. But he couldn't stop, and he couldn't go back. As he came into Jared's begging mouth, the hot tears fell over everything he had lost.

Sam snapped back to reality with the feeling of Jared's fingers running through his hair and his lips pressing the top of his head. He needed to do something. Tyler, Johnny, and Don hadn't been around for almost eight hours, and he knew they must be finishing up their film editing. The film in which he would be starring for a bunch of perverted old men. "Stop it," Sam scolded himself. "Think." Now that they had all the footage they wanted, he figured it was only a matter of time before they killed him. They had clearly done this before, many times, and he doubted they kept their victims around longer than they needed them as a prop for their film.

Jared had told Sam he loved him, and Sam could feel it in Jared's passionate kissing as they fucked. He wondered if Jared felt that way about every one of the boys they had brought home, or if he was special. If he was special, Sam knew Jared was his only shot at surviving this. But he needed some time to think.

"Jared?" he questioned, not removing his head from the older man's chest. "Mmm?" Jared responded, the post-sex haze and the heat from their joined bodies making him drowsy.

"I'm really hungry," Sam said, rolling onto his stomach, planting his chin on Jared's chest, and looking up at him with wide eyes. "Am I allowed to eat?"

Jared murmured again sleepily and tried to draw the boy back down to his body. He needed Sam's heat. "Please, Jared?" Sam persisted. Jared groaned and sat up, leaving Sam huddled in the pillows. "Ok, baby. Ok," Jared rubbed the drowsiness from his eyes. "I'll see what I can find you." He leaned down to place a soft kiss on Sam's lips, and Sam didn't resist. He faked a smile up at Jared. "Thank you," he pronounced with sincerity. He truly was hungry. Jared stretched himself and stood, pulling on his boxers, then padded up the stairs.

Sam rooted around the floor for Jared's khakis and tugged them on. They were a bit big and too long, but at least he wasn't naked. He tried to think. As much as it repulsed him, he was going to have to play this card. Maybe he could convince Jared that they were in love and should run away together. He knew that if they could get away from Johnny and Tyler, he could easily take Jared, and that would be his chance to get out of this mess. Sam wasn't quite sure if he knew what love felt like in this context, and he wasn't sure how well he could fake it. His heart swelled and felt too big for his chest whenever he saw Quinn walk by, but he wasn't sure yet if that was love. In either event, he was pretty sure Jared's version of love was closer to lust, and that might be easier to convince him of.

Jared was coming back down the stairs now, bowl in hand. He handed Sam the bowl and a piece of toast with a bite missing out of it. "Hope you like ramen noodles," Jared started, "Don does all the cooking, I'm pretty bad at it, so this is about as good as it gets."

"They're awesome, thank you," Sam said, plunging a fork into the watery noodles. He was so hungry he didn't care what it was. He shoved a forkful into his mouth and burned himself on the steaming noodles. He blew air on the next bite, but the burning roof of his mouth didn't make him wait because he wasn't sure when he'd get to eat again, or if even this would be taken away.

"You're wearing my pants."

"Yeah, I was getting really cold and kinda uncomfortable being naked," Sam paused in thought, then added, "Doesn't it turn you on to see me wearing your clothes?" He knew Quinn looked hot as hell in his t-shirts; he wasn't sure if it worked the same way for gay dudes.

"Everything about you turns me on," Jared hovered over Sam, and let a hand down to rest gingerly on his shoulder. Sam could feel Jared staring down at him, watching him eat, but he was too hungry to think of anything but the food in front of him until it was gone.

Jared took the empty bowl from him and sat it down on the floor, then climbed back into bed. He laid on his side, curled slightly at the waist and knees, and Sam obediently lowered himself into the same position, facing Jared. Jared snaked an arm around Sam's waist and pulled him close until their bodies were touching, Sam's rippling torso flush against Jared's smooth one. Their faces were an inch apart. Even though they were so close, Jared's eyes were wide open, staring deeply into Sam's. His lips were parted slightly and Sam could tell by his ragged breaths that Jared desperately wanted to kiss him. Sam leaned his forehead against Jared's and met Jared's gaze. Jared was mesmerized. Sam's tongue brushed over his lower lip and Jared's breath hitched. "Ok," Sam thought, "Here goes."

He tipped his chin up and pressed himself to Jared with a hot, open kiss. Jared's hand at his lower back clenched him tighter, and he could feel Jared's hard nipples pressing into his chest. It was weird, and Sam wasn't sure how to do it, but if he closed his eyes and let his mind drift, kissing a guy was close enough to kissing a girl. Jared did most of the work, anyway. His tongue hungrily probed Sam's mouth, licking along his teeth and pressing at his tongue. The biggest difference Sam noticed from the girls he had dated was that Jared was aggressive. When he was kissing Quinn, her mouth was soft and inviting as she allowed him to explore her. He and Jared, on the other hand, might as well have been wrestling. Jared had managed to roll Sam onto his back and continued making out with him from a more dominant position.

When Jared pulled back, he was hot and panting, eagerly pawing at Sam's chest and abs. Sam, too, had to catch his breath. "Jared?" he asked with that wide-eyed innocence he could tell melted Jared at his core. "Yeah, baby," Jared panted back, clearly wanting to reseal their lips. Sam pressed his lips to Jared's ear and whispered hotly, "If you love me, why do you share me with them? I don't want them to have me. I wanna belong to just you."

"Fuck, Sammy," Jared swore, pressing his mouth back to Sam's. The lust was transparent in his eyes. But Sam pushed him back. "Take me away from them, Jared, so we can be together. I'll be yours forever. I love you." Jared moaned and nodded heavily, trying to bring his lips back to Sam's, but again, he turned his face to the side. "Jared, I wanna go now. I-I can't do this here. You can't make love to me here. They raped me here, and that's all I can think about. Please take me away now."

Frustrated and longing, Jared groaned and pulled himself up from his lover's embrace. He rooted around the chest and found Sam's shorts, tossing them to him.

"Give me my pants back, and hurry up."

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By 6;00, the Lima Police Department was investigating Sam's case, and Sam Evans was officially a missing person. After interviewing his distraught parents, the first person they brought down to the station was the last person to see Sam before he went missing—Finn Hudson.

Finn recounted his story to the officers but was sorry he couldn't offer more. He felt like he'd told this story a thousand times in the past 24 hours, and the more he told it, the more he realized that he couldn't help. He felt insignificant and desperate.

"Were you supposed to go running with him yesterday?" the detective asked. Finn looked down and shook his head. "Nah. I mean, he always asked me if I wanted to go. He said I better get myself in better shape or he was going to take my spot. But I never went with him."

"So you wouldn't know if there was a specific route he took?"

"Nah, sorry," Finn felt useless, unable to help his friend. "But hey! Puck went with him sometimes, maybe Puck would know!"

"Puck?"

"Noah Puckerman. He's on the team too."

"Ok, Finn. Thanks. We'll be in touch with Noah."

A police cruiser picked up Puck at his small home in West Lima. He had been in the back of a cop car before, but never as like, an informant. This shit was serious. Puck had only gone for a run with Sam a couple times before, but he knew Sam liked this one back road when he was stressed out. It was a seven-mile loop that Sam could push out in 40-45 minutes. The time Sam dragged him out there Puck felt like he was going to die after about 3 miles, so he and Sam had stopped and walked back to school together. That was the only thing Puck could think of.

As he led the police down the road where Sam often jogged, he stared out the window. Suddenly, he spotted something. "What the hell is that?" Puck shouted, and the detectives pulled the cruiser over onto the shoulder. They saw the same thing he did and got out of the car to inspect it. It was dusk, and the light wasn't perfect, but that sure as hell looked like a large pool of dried blood staining the asphalt and the adjoining grass. The officers felt their stomachs tighten.

"Andy," one said to the other, "Go call the station and get the crime scene unit out here."

Andy headed for the cruiser to call in their finding.

Tom, the more senior detective, squatted down to inspect the dark red stain. He'd be damned if that wasn't blood. And a lot of it. With that amount of blood loss, he had the sinking feeling in his gut that they would be searching for a body rather than a teenaged boy. Tom got out his radio and transmitted a message to the station, ordering spotlights and the assembly of a volunteer team to sweep the surrounding woods.

From the backseat where Puck had been ordered to remain, his fingers flew over the keypad on his phone, informing the entire glee club about his chilling discovery.

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Sam and Jared were sneaking out across the lawn towards the SUV, parked just feet from the woods. Sam's heart was racing. Jared had checked to make sure Tyler and Johnny were focused on their editing, then had snuck Sam up the stairs and out the front door. He had grabbed the keys and the two headed for the car, trying not to break into a run. It was getting darker, but they were still visible, and while Jared was undoubtedly blinded by his love/lust, Sam knew something terrible would happen if they got caught. He waited for Jared to unlock the doors then climbed into the passenger seat, closing the door as silently as he could.

Jared got into the driver's seat and held his breath as he turned the key in the ignition and the loud engine turned over. He had just shifted into reverse and was about to start easing the car towards the dirt road when he heard a tapping on his window. His heart stopped. Tyler was there, tapping the window with his gun, which, for the first time, was pointed at him. "Put it in park, and shut the engine off, or I put one through your brain," Tyler said, stone-faced.

Sam's heart was in his throat. He was about to open his own door and bolt into the woods while Tyler threatened Jared, but as he turned to grab the handle, he saw Johnny standing in the window, gun aimed. "Fuck," Sam thought, "Fuck, fuck, fuck. I'm dead."

Both doors were thrown open and Jared and Sam were led back to the house, Johnny gripping Sam's arm and Tyler directing Jared with the gun. Once inside, the two men locked the door and sat down at the kitchen table. "Sit," Tyler commanded, pointing the gun first at Jared, then at Sam. After a long pause, Tyler started.

"Jared, what the fuck were you thinking? You can't take him out like that. Where were you going?"

"I-I-I just wanted to take him somewhere, Tyler. Somewhere safe. I can't do this to him."

"Somewhere safe? Jared, you know how this works."

"Tyler, Johnny, I'm sorry, I just can't this time. Not with him." he glanced at Sam, eyes tearing.

"Jesus Christ, Jared. You fell in love with the kid? I leave you alone with him for a few hours so you can fuck him and you fell in love with him?"

Jared nodded, closing his eyes, pressing the tears down his cheeks.

"What did you think you were going to do with him?"

"I-I don't know, Tyler. I was gonna take him somewhere we could be together."

"Be together?"

Jared nodded again, eyes still closed, "He loves me too, Tyler."

At that statement Tyler let out a wicked laugh, his lips snarled. "He loves you, Jared? Are you that stupid?"

"H-he told me he loved me, Tyler. We're going to be together if you let me keep him. Right, Sammy?" Sam sat blank-faced, not sure who it was in his best interest to agree with.

"Jared, let me spell this out for you, since I know you get blinded by your feelings for these kids," Tyler started. "He's playing you. Sammy here knows you'd lose an arm to get that sweet piece of ass everyday, and he thought that if he could get you alone, away from me and Johnny, he'd beat the shit out of you and take off. Isn't that right, Sammy?" He pressed the gun to Sam's temple. Sam closed his eyes and gave a few small nods.

"Jesus Christ, you really thought we picked up some straight high school jock, held him down and popped his cherry, and then a day later he fell in love with you? Come on, Jared. He was a great fuck, but you're smarter than that."

"Is it true, Sammy?" Jared asked quietly, not able to meet Sam's eyes. Sam didn't respond, he just stared at Jared.

A loud crack filled the room and Sam's vision went hazy for a moment, his cheek on fire. Jared had sprung from the chair, skidding it backwards, and was now inches from his face, enraged. "You little fucking cunt." Three more rapid slaps burned across Sam's cheek, leaving him ducking behind his hands for cover. "I told you I loved you!" Jared fumed, "I waited my whole miserable fucking life for someone like you to love me back. Well fuck you, Sam. I hope they break every bone in your filthy body and leave you to drown in your own blood. That's what you deserve for breaking my heart." Jared collapsed into his chair, spent.

After minutes of silence filled only by Jared's quiet sniffling, Tyler was the first to speak. "Go wait in the car, Jared. We're going to take care of this thing tonight. Johnny and I will get him ready." Jared nodded dazedly and went into the living room to retrieve his coat. Sam saw him fiddling around near the computer, and he could have sworn he slipped something into his coat, but he wasn't sure.

After Jared left the house, Johnny retrieved the duct tape from the basement. Tyler held Sam still while Johnny taped his wrists and ankles, then placed a piece over his mouth. He gave Sam's ass a squeeze through the blood-soaked Titans Football shorts. "You were a blast kid," Johnny smirked, "We're really gonna miss you." Tyler gripped Sam at the waist and lifted him, throwing him over his shoulder as they started for the car.

Sam felt fear, but not like when they had first brought him here. Then, he didn't know what was going to happen to him. Now, he knew precisely what was going to happen. He was going to die, and he wanted to spend his last few minutes or hours thinking about all the great things in his life rather than the terror he was currently living through.

Just as they had a day ago, the two men tossed Sam in the back of the SUV and started down the dirt road. In three and a half hours, they would be back in Lima, Ohio.


	10. Chapter 10

**Thanks to everyone who reviewed! Sorry for making you wait to find out the results. I should be able to update in a few days. Until then, enjoy, and keep reviewing!**

Chapter 10

By the time Dwight and Mary Evans had returned to the tiny motel room where their family lived, Stacy and Stevie had fallen asleep on the bed, nestled into Quinn's sides. Stacy looked the perfect picture of blissful sleep, her thumb dangling from her parted lips. Stevie, on the other hand, was clutched to Quinn. His hands gripped at her waist, and his eyes showed the white residue of dried salt water. He had been crying. Quinn's face was white. Her lips were pursed tightly, and her eyes were wide with a silent terror. The gentle smile at seeing his children sleeping fell from Dwight's lips at the sight of her.

"Quinn, what's wrong?"

Mary nudged the children off of Quinn, freeing the girl. Quinn stood slowly, her wide eyes staring into the wall. Dwight's hands found her shoulders, gently squeezing her. He tried again, the fear now rising in his own heart.

"Quinn, please. What's wrong?"

Quinn silently held up her phone. The screen was turned to a text message, where it had been frozen for the last hour. It was from Puck, and it had been sent to the entire glee club.

_w the cops. just found a huge puddle of blood where he runs. starting 2 search the woods now. dudes totally dead._

Dwight's stomach dropped as he stared at the phone, reading the text over and over again.

"Who sent this?"

"Puck. He's on the football team and in the glee club."

"When?"

"About an hour ago."

Mary was sitting on the bed, gripping her two children, looking too exhausted to be terrified. "Mary," Dwight started as his wife's eyes raised slowly, "Can you stay with the kids? I'm going to take Quinn home then go back to the station." Mary nodded, curling her two babies to her breast. She seemed grateful to be left home; this was overwhelming her. But she couldn't close her eyes. She ran her fingers through Stacy and Stevie's blond locks, seeing only Sam in their slumbering faces.

Dwight took Quinn by the elbow and led her back outside to the beat up pickup he drove. He helped Quinn into the passenger seat, and she couldn't help but smile. "Sam must have learned to be such a gentleman from his father," she thought.

"Thank you so much for watching the kids, Quinn. You have no idea what it means to us."

Quinn waved her hand to dismiss the thought. "I'm so worried about Sam. I-I wanted to tell him. I should have told him. He loved me, he told me he wanted to marry me someday. A-And I should have told him," Quinn looked at Dwight with desperate, watering eyes.

"Told him what, sweetheart?" Dwight asked as gently as possible. He was scared too, but he needed to stay strong for these people who were looking to him for strength and comfort.

A single tear rolled down Quinn's cheek and her lips quivered. "I should have told him I loved him, too."

Dwight felt a tugging in his heart. When was the last time he had told his son he loved him? It wasn't an every day thing, but Dwight reassured himself that Sam knew how they treasured him. He and Mary couldn't give their kids much right now, but there was never a moment they didn't love them.

"Quinn," he said in a low voice, reaching over to lay a hand on her shoulder. "We're going to find him. Then you can tell him how you feel about him." Quinn nodded, a smile pulling at the corners of her lips.

"Ok, let's get you home,"

"Mr. Evans?"

"Yep?"

"I want to come with you."

"No."

"You're going to the station to join the search party in the woods, right?"

"Yes."

"I'm going with you."

Dwight sighed. This poor girl really did love his son. And he knew what it felt like to love someone to the point that you would sacrifice your own comfort for that person's well-being; that's what being a parent was about. So, if this young girl was in love with his son, and she wanted to give up a night of sleep to make herself feel that she had done something to help him, Dwight wasn't going to stop her. He drove them silently to the police station, where an officer added their names to the search team and helped them into a car to take them to the scene.

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Sam lay in the back of the SUV silently, the carpeting rough against his cheek. They had been driving for hours, and some of the highways were beginning to look familiar. As they passed under a streetlight, the green shadow of a road sign flickered over Sam's window; they were passing into Ohio over the Indiana border.

He no longer felt any fear. He knew he would die. He only hoped there wouldn't be too much pain. He figured they would kill him efficiently and then run, and maybe then it wouldn't hurt so bad. But either way, it would be over soon. He hoped that they would leave him somewhere that his parents would be able to find him. His heart sunk at the thought of how his mother would suffer if they never found his body. If they had to bury him, they would cry, and they would hurt for a while, but then they would move on. They would stand and clap at Stevie's graduation and help Stacy get dressed for her prom. His dad would walk Stacy down the aisle someday and give her away to some boy he would never meet. But if they never found his body, well then he knew the thought of him would haunt his family forever.

He wondered what would happen to him after it was all over. He believed in God, but he still wasn't convinced that there was a heaven and hell so black and white like that. His biggest fear was that when he died he would be all alone in the night sky, rolling around in black clouds without direction or peace. Or that he would be able to look down on everyone as they went on with their lives. Spying seemed like a cool idea if you weren't about to die, but now it sounded terrible. He didn't want to be able to see his mom crying at his funeral, or his friends making mistakes he couldn't prevent. He didn't want to be able to see his sister dating a boy he didn't like and not be able to intervene.

Sam pressed his eyes closed. He didn't want to cry. He wanted to die with a little bit of the dignity that they had tried so hard to tear away from him. He hoped he could hold onto this last little piece of himself. They were gliding silently through the back roads of Lima. It was so close to being over. Everything felt cold and his whole body was tingling. In the front seat, Tyler and Johnny were chatting and singing along with the radio. But in the backseat, Jared was still seething.

Part of Sam was genuinely sorry he had hurt him. Sam was a gentle person. He never wanted to hurt anyone. When Kurt had a crush on Finn, Finn had been rude, combative, and downright offensive to Kurt; he had really hurt Kurt's feelings. On the other hand, when Kurt had fallen hard for Sam, even though Sam wasn't gay, he didn't say anything to hurt Kurt. He just laid low until Kurt's feelings for him fizzled out on their own. He couldn't do to Kurt what Finn did. He didn't reject people cruelly, and he didn't purposefully break hearts. So yeah, under normal circumstances, he would hate what he did to Jared—take advantage of someone's strong feelings for him. But he had no other choice, he had to try.

The car was slowing down. From what Sam could tell, they were back on the road where they had picked him up over a day ago, but about 5 miles farther towards the outskirts of town. It was just off the turn to another road, but Sam had only made it out that far once. It was almost 8 miles out from the school, and the only time he had ventured out that far was to prevent himself from punching walls when the bank had locked the doors to their humble home. He had felt angry for his parents, not sorry for himself. They were working hard. They moved the whole family from Tennessee to try to make life better for their kids, and this is what they got? His dad worked so hard, this just wasn't fair. Sam had felt the adrenaline pumping through his body that day, and without thinking he had just taken off running. Now, he found it ironic that this would probably be the last place he would see the stars or feel a cool breeze against his skin.

The car stopped and Tyler and Johnny got out, leaving their doors slightly ajar. The tailgate opened and Sam felt the rush of cold air. Only the thin mesh shorts protected him from the cold, and with his hands taped, he couldn't even wrap his arms around his chest for warmth. He squinted up into the light at the two men hovering over him. They grabbed him by the shoulders and hauled him roughly to his feet, scraping his bare feet against the asphalt. Sam bit his lip and looked up into the night sky.

The way the pine trees bristled against the blue-black sky, inky and dotted with yellow points of light, almost made this shit town look like Tennessee. They had lived in a mountain town where land was easy to come by and no one really knew or cared where property lines started or ended. Sam would just wander in the woods for hours sometimes, losing himself in thoughts that now seemed childish. He learned how to play guitar out in the woods, spending hours upon hours experimenting with chords until he got them right. It was also the only place he'd sang besides the shower before Finn pulled him into the glee club. Sometimes, if it was warm enough, he would spend the night laying on his back in the long, dewy grass, looking up at the stars and wondering if there were aliens out there staring back at him. Sometimes it was God, sometimes it was aliens, sometimes it was Avatar, depending on his mood. He hoped he'd be able to die lying on his back, looking up at the stars. He'd pretend he was back home, trying to spot God amidst the lights.

Tyler, Johnny, and Don crowded around him, keeping him upright. Jared leaned against the car.

"Say your prayers, kid," Tyler said solemnly as he and Johnny pulled large, gleaming objects from somewhere near their hips. Sam froze. Knives. Huge kitchen knives. His breath caught as he saw Tyler and Johnny's arms swing forward. He felt the sharp tips pierce his skin. Everything seemed so slow. As one knife plunged into his abdomen just below his belly button and the other drove into his back, he felt no pain, only an immense, shuddering cold. Tyler and Johnny grunted as their weapons hit hilt deep in Sam's body. They tore them out just as quickly and raced back to the car to gun the engine.

Sam swooned on his feet, then sunk to his knees, clutching at the deep, penetrating wound in his gut. He fell backwards onto his back on the side of the road. As warm blood filled his mouth and his eyes clouded, he gazed up into the night sky. The stars were dazzling. Not too far from here, his mom and dad, his baby brother and sister, and maybe even Quinn were looking up at those stars too. Would they feel something when he was finally gone? Would they know?

A figure leaned over him, blocking his view of the night sky. His straggly hair was dangling down inches from Sam's face. It was Jared. "Hurry up, Jared!" a voice called from the SUV, already running. "I just want to say goodbye to him," Jared responded, not loud enough for anyone but Sam to hear. He leaned down, pressing his lips gently to Sam's wet, bloodied ones. "I really did love you," he whispered, caressing Sam's cheek. Jared dug into his coat and pulled out something shiny. Sam groaned and tried to turn himself away from what he thought was another impending blow. But it wasn't a knife. It was a gleaming, silver CD. Jared looked quickly to the car, then tucked the CD into Sam's shorts, sliding it down against Sam's skin so it wouldn't be visible without undressing him.

"I don't want to do this anymore, Sammy. You changed me," Jared whispered, and with another peck on the lips, he, too, was gone. The car sped off silently, and Sam turned his gaze back to the sky. He could feel his heart beating deeply. With halting breaths, he thanked his mom and dad for loving him unconditionally, and his sister and brother for bringing such joy to his life. He whispered out a trembling "I love you" to Quinn, then allowed himself to drift. He was swimming, floating in the ink-black night.


	11. Chapter 11

**Hey guys, thanks again for the comments. This is a short chapter, but it gets us a little closer to finding out what will happen to Sam. An update will be coming in the next few days. Enjoy!**

Chapter 11

Taylor Jordan and his girlfriend Addie were fighting. In fact, lately, they were always fighting. At 24 years old, Taylor considered himself to be pretty well situated in life. He had a job in construction making thirteen bucks an hour, and he was able to pay the rent on a nice apartment for his girlfriend and himself. They were even starting to put away a little bit of money for a down payment on a house somewhere down the line. In Jordan's mind, that was more than most people his age could say. Hell, that was more than most people twice his age could say in this rotten economy. Sure, he hadn't been to college. But ya know what? When he and Addie had gone to their five-year reunion at McKinley a couple years back, all his friends who had gone to college were $100 grand in debt and had jobs as personal assistants or interns making less than he did. What the hell was an intern anyway? So yeah, according to Taylor, he was doing just fine.

But Addie had some different ideas. She was two months pregnant with their first child, and while Taylor was steady and reliable, she wanted big things for her kid. She wanted their kid to be smart and go to college. A good college. And she didn't want to send her baby off to Harvard where he would be embarrassed to be the son of a construction worker and a waitress. She wanted Taylor to better himself. Take classes at night. Maybe learn some accounting. Do something respectable behind a desk. Wear button down shirts that she would iron for him. And then once he was all set up and bringing in the money to support them comfortably, then it would be her turn. She would have to wait a little bit longer, but she was hoping by the time she was 30 she would be out of that shit restaurant serving those rude people from this stick-in-the-mud town. Then they could send their baby out into the world. To Harvard. Or at least to Ohio State.

So Taylor and Addie were fighting. They were always fighting. And they were fighting as they drove along the silent, winding road between Breadstix and their apartment in the real sticks.

Suddenly, a deer skittered out into the road. Taylor saw it only feet in front of the car and swerved hard into the opposite lane. Addie screamed as he slammed the breaks. Startled, the deer bolted across the road into the thick brush. Taylor and Addie sat silently, mouths agape, Taylor gripping the wheel and Addie clutching at her stomach. "Thank God there's never any traffic on this road," Taylor thought as he eased the car back into the right lane.

"Jesus Christ, Taylor!" Addie shouted. "Put the fucking high beams on! You can't see your hand in front of your goddamn face out here."

Taylor flicked on the high beams and turned up the radio. Addie was yelling about something, but she could have been Charlie Brown's teacher as far as he was concerned. All he heard was noise.

About five minutes down the road, Addie was still on about something or other when the high beams washed over something that silenced her. "Taylor, what is that?" she asked in a hushed voice, lips still. "I-I don't know. It looks like . . ."

It looked like a damn body. That's what it looked like. It looked like a huddle of naked flesh lying on the side of the road, which became more clearly define as the car slipped up closer and closer. Taylor pulled over on the shoulder about twenty feet back from the lifeless form. As the lights bathed it in a hazy yellow glow, their fears were confirmed. It was definitely a body.

"What do we do?" Addie whispered.

"I don't know. I'm gonna go check it out."

"Don't touch it, Taylor!" Addie squeaked, on the verge of panic. "What if . . . oh my God what if it's like Criminal Minds? What if it's a decoy and they're gonna kill us? Oh my God, Taylor, please let's just go!"

Taylor opened the door. "We can't leave, Addie. We need to call the cops." Addie wrapped her arms around her chest and locked the door, fear coursing through her.

Taylor squatted down next to the form piled on the road. It was male, young, and undressed from the waist up. He summoned all of his courage to reach out and touch the corpse. Tentatively, he brushed a few fingers over its back. The skin was warmer than he expected. A deep wound in its back was still bleeding. Wait. "Dead bodies don't keep bleeding, right?" he thought, confused. Gripping the shoulder firmly, he rolled the corpse onto its back. Wide, wet, blue-green eyes stared up at him. Taylor recoiled sharply. The lips were trembling and the eyes blinked back tears. It was clutching desperately at a wound in its gut. It was just a kid, and he was barely clinging onto life.

Shocked, Taylor lunged at the kid, pushing the kid's taped fists into the wound in his stomach. "Hold that there," Taylor commanded. He pushed the kid up into a seated position, eliciting a groan from the bleeding lips. Shaking, Taylor forced the heel of his hand up against the wound in the kid's back, trying to stop the bleeding.

"Addie! Call 911!" he screamed at the car. Jolted out of the paralysis of fear, Addie's eyes shot to her hands and began fumbling with her phone. She managed to punch out 9-1-1. "Please help! Please help! Someone's hurt here on the side of the street. We're trying to help." She paused while the operator tried to ascertain the nature of the injuries. "I don't know. I-I don't know. He got hit by a car or something. Please just hurry up!" She managed to bark out the name of the road then dropped the phone and started to cry hysterically. She had never seen such a terrible sight in real life.

The kid was wilting. Taylor had no idea how long he had been there, but he was getting pale and weak, and was having a hard time sitting up on his own. Taylor forced the kid's fists tighter into his stomach, drawing whimpers. Holding onto the kid's back, his hand covered in blood, Taylor gently shook him.

"Hey. Kid." He continued to gently shake until the dim, watery eyes turned slowly towards him. "Kid. Focus. You listening?" The kid's head barely nodded.

"Kid. You're gonna make it, ok?" The eyelids sunk and closed.

"Hey! I told you to listen!" Taylor felt the desperation grip him. He clutched the boy's shoulder harshly with his unbloodied hand and dug his nails into the skin. The eyes eased back open.

"Hey, look at me ok?" Blond lashes fluttered up and the blue-green eyes stared directly into him. Taylor was scared. He was going to see someone die in his arms. A kid, even.

"Hey, the ambulance is going to be here any second. Hang on with me, ok?" In the distance, he could hear the wail of the ambulance on its way. He prayed and begged that it would get there faster, but he didn't know if anything would save this boy now. He was so pale, and his body was heaving under Taylor's touch.

"Well," Taylor thought, "If it's his time, I'm going to be here with him at the end." He didn't want the kid's last thought to be of the person who did this to him, or of the pain he was almost definitely in. His eyes slipped closed again, and his blond head hung backwards, loose on his shoulders.

"Hey kid, you got someone you love? Your mom and dad? You got a girlfriend?" The eyes didn't open but Taylor could feel the kid breathing and noticed a distinct nod.

"Ok, kid. Think of her now. Don't think of anything else. Just think of her now, ok?"

The boy's eyes stayed closed, and all of his dead weight laid cradled in Taylor's arms, but Taylor was certain he saw a small smile tug at his lips as the screeching of the ambulance's brakes filled the air.


	12. Chapter 12

**As always, I hope you enjoy. We're getting there!**

Chapter 12

Dwight Evans wasn't really sure what he was looking for. Obviously, he knew he was looking for his son. But as he and Quinn brushed aside stinging branches and kicked through underbrush, he found himself completely distracted by his thoughts. If they actually found Sam, if he was hurt, or god forbid worse, it would be a complete shock.

Spotlights shone through the leaves and cast an eerie yellow-green glow in the pitch-black forest. Dwight reassured himself that he was a grown man, and that he shouldn't be afraid of the woods or the dark. But still his heart leapt when a crunching foot nearby startled him, or when they drifted too far from a spotlight and the light faded into a sickly gray. He wasn't sure if he was afraid of the dark, or afraid that he would find his son's body hidden in it.

The police found blood on the road and confirmed it was Sam's. They said he had lost quite a bit. What were the chances that they weren't searching for a body? What were the chances Dwight wouldn't have to bury his oldest child?

Quinn must have sensed his fear because she reached out to brush light fingertips over his arm. She was a sweet girl. When word spread that the police were assembling a team to search the woods, large numbers of McKinley kids had turned up to help. Dozens of football players came in Titans Football t-shirts, and a number of other kids Dwight assumed were Sam's beloved glee club came as well.

The latter had surrounded Quinn and wrapped her in a tight hug while she tried not to break down. They took her hand and tried to lead her off to join their search groups, but she had shook them off gently. She told them she wanted to stay with Dwight. The other kids nodded. They probably assumed that Quinn was scared and needed the support of Sam's father to make this horrible thing they were doing seem ok. But really, it was just the opposite. He knew she could tell just how fragile he was behind the façade he had erected for his wife and kids, even for her. She wanted to be there for him to provide the little bit of extra strength he would need to go through with this. God bless her for that. She was a good girl.

Dwight and Quinn continued pushing away the brush and calling Sam's name when the harsh sound of swiftly crunching leaves broke them from their thoughts. Before them stood a breathless young officer. Dwight froze. By his side, Quinn did as well.

Between gasps, the officer managed to cough out, "You need to come with me." He grabbed Dwight's arm and tugged him in the direction from which he had come. Overcome by the sense of urgency, Dwight and Quinn jolted from their paralysis and dashed after the sprinting officer.

Dwight was too panicked to think. He didn't think about where they were going, or what he would find when they got there. His arms flew up in front of his face to shield him from stinging nettles as he barreled through the thick growth. His feet stumbled over curling roots, but still, he kept running. If this was his last chance to see his baby . . . If it was his last chance to tell him he loved him . . .

"No," Dwight thought firmly, "No. No. No." He pushed the thought from his mind and ran towards the road with a boiling desperation.

A patrol car was parked on the road just where Dwight and Quinn burst from the woods. That portion of the road had been shut down as a crime scene.

"Where is he?" Dwight shouted, lungs burning. His eyes shot back and forth along the road, searching for some movement, some crowd, something to point him in the right direction. "Where's my son?"

The officer tore open the back door of the car. "He's, well, we don't know for sure, but . . ."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Dwight felt himself tipping over into hysteria. "Where is he?"

A crowd of the searchers was beginning to gather behind them.

"An ambulance picked up a kid up the road five miles. A teenager, male. Blond. They're on the way to the hospital. We're sending a patroller to pick up your wife and meet us there. We need to go. Now!"

He grabbed at Dwight's elbow.

"I-I-I don't . . . My other kids, I-I can't . . . We don't have anyone here," Dwight stammered, not sure if anyone could understand. His mind was darting frantically. He felt like he was on drugs.

From out of the crowd stepped a tiny brunette girl holding the hand of a tall boy Dwight recognized as the other quarterback. "Mr. Evans," she spoke quietly, her lashes lowered, "Finn and I can watch them while you take care of . . . of . . ."

The officer jumped in, nodding. "Good." He turned the two kids towards a second patrol car with an officer already seated at the wheel.

"We have to go now," the young officer said sternly, nudging Dwight into the backseat of the car. He felt helpless. Ever since Sam had gone missing, he felt like a bag of sand people had been pushing in one direction then another. They told him statistics about missing children, missing teenagers, males, females . . . all of it was meaningless to him. They said Sam had probably been mugged, then when Dwight told them that he didn't run with an iPod or anything valuable, they had answered with a simple, "oh." He couldn't really think on his own; everyone was trying to tell him different things, and he didn't understand any of it.

Sitting in the back of the patrol car, he felt numb. He looked up at the pretty blonde girl standing outside the door. Her wavy hair was floating in the night breeze and a streetlight illuminated her pale skin.

"Quinn?" Dwight croaked, his fear and panic finally cracking the surface. "Please?"

"Slide over," she said and stepped into the car.

00000000000000000

Dwight, Mary, and Quinn sat in a small waiting room outside the hospital's operating room. It was past two in the morning, and it had been over an hour and a half since the officer dropped them off there. The officer was able to tell them that it was, in fact, Sam the ambulance had brought in, but beyond that, there was no news.

Mary's eyes were bloodshot. She hadn't cried once yet, but she was sleepless and in constant turmoil. Quinn clasped Mary's small, bone-white hand in her lap, trying to offer some comfort. But the older woman never felt her. She had completely closed herself off. She stared, unblinking, at the swinging doors leading to the operating room. Behind those doors, her son was laid out on a table, unconscious, with gloved fingers and scalpels prodding around inside him. She felt nothing.

If she allowed herself to feel something, she would feel the way she did when she first saw him. He was a solid little thing. The nurse had handed him to her wrapped in a little blue blanket, and she was surprised at his weight and how substantial he felt. She had expected the baby to be a dainty bird, something she would have to handle ever so gently or she would crush it. But as she cuddled Sam to her breast and nuzzled her face into his little tummy, she realized that he was real and he wouldn't break. He was hers, and she adored him.

He stole her breath the first time he opened his eyes. They were so bright, and they stared right into her. He had one lock of white-blond hair that stuck up in the center of his bald head, and with his round, blue eyes, Mary thought he looked a bit like a happy little chicken. He was a quiet baby, but he was always smiling and his eyes shone with animation.

Part of her felt a deep sense of loss when Sam started shedding his baby chub and growing into a young man. At fifteen he was six feet tall and still shooting up. He was well built like his father. Mary saw the way girls looked at him. Now, he showed no physical remnants of the chubby little chicken she adored. But he was respectful, and he was true. He treated people well. He wasn't too self-conscious to allow a big smile to take over his face, and his eyes were as lively as the first time he opened them. Even if the world would call him a man, he was still her baby.

And if she allowed herself to feel anything at all, all of these memories would drown her, and she would run screaming into that operating room and shake the doctors until they promised they would give him back to her. So instead she felt nothing, and thought only with a cold detachment of the fingers digging through his insides.

0000000000000000

Quinn was the first to shoot up from her perch when a surgeon pushed through the swinging doors. He was a small Asian man with intelligent eyes and soft features. He was wearing scrubs splattered with blood. Quinn gripped Mary's hand and pulled her to her feet. The woman seemed to be melting in her grasp.

"Mr. and Mrs. Evans?" the doctor asked quietly. Dwight and Mary tensed as the doctor stepped close.

Quinn lingered behind, not wanting to intrude. She hadn't been dating Sam for very long, and these people might be on the verge of getting the worst news of their lives. But Dwight looked back to her and nodded, taking her hand. She had been with them through all of this, and she deserved to know. She took a deep breath and stepped into the small huddle. Dwight supported his wife with an arm around her waist, and his other hand clasped Quinn's firmly.

"I'm afraid I don't have much good news," the doctor started, looking sympathetic. Quinn froze, and the hand holding hers tightened its grip.

"We're doing our best, but Sam's injuries are extensive and he's barely hanging on. I can't put a number on his chances of making it through this, but I can assure you, we've got the best surgeons, and we're doing everything in our power to save your son."

Mary's face never changed. Dwight broke the silence, "Please. No one's told us anything. What happened to him?" He was trying to remain calm, to keep the desperation out of his voice.

The doctor sighed, gazing down at his hands. "Someone's hurt him very badly. Probably at least two attackers. He's been shot in the leg, but the injuries that are causing the most damage are two deep stab wounds, one in the back and one in the stomach. These injuries are almost always fatal. If he came in a minute later, we wouldn't have a chance at all."

Dwight drew in a sharp breath. "So somebody just jumped him and did all this?"

"No, Mr. Evans. I'm very sorry, but Sam's body shows signs of extensive torture. I'm afraid this wasn't just a case of a mugging gone awry. We won't be able to tell any more unless we can get him stabilized and examine him."

Dwight nodded silently. He thanked the doctor, who nodded before turning briskly to push open the doors to the operating room. The three sat down stiffly, everyone afraid to move or think. For ten minutes that felt like hours, they sat in silence.

"Hail Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with thee."

Dwight and Mary turned to stare, shocked out of their vigil by the sudden voice.

"Blessed are thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus."

Dangling from Quinn's fingers was a pearly pink strand of rosary beads. She clutched the bead closest to the tiny gold cross with such force that her fingers shook.

"Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death."

Her rosy lips trembled, and her eyes were pressed tightly shut. Tear droplets rolled freely down her cheeks.

"Amen."


	13. Chapter 13

**Just a brief warning for this chapter . . . I am not a therapist, and I know nothing about psychology. Anything appearing in this chapter is made up from my own intuitions. There will undoubtedly be a reader out there who knows more about psychology than I do, and he or she will find mistakes. I'm sorry for those, and hope that they don't prevent you from enjoying the chapter. More to come soon, please read and review!**

Chapter 13

Quinn's beautiful blonde hair was completely flat on one side. For the last six hours, she had been leaning her head against the wall in the waiting room, deliriously murmuring the prayers of her rosary. The popcorn texturing on the walls had impressed deeply into her smooth skin, making one cheek look pockmarked and enflamed while the other was a pristine white. One of her eyes was watering involuntarily and beginning to crust over. She had never been so tired in her life, and she was unfamiliar with her body's strange reaction to the exhaustion.

It was 9:00 in the morning, and the school day had already started at McKinley, but Quinn hadn't slept for a minute. For two or three hours in the middle of this ordeal, she had been in such a fog that she wasn't sure if she was awake or asleep. Everything around her had looked hazy, and anyone who tried to talk to her sounded like a slow motion blur. But by this point, she was beyond tired. Her head was still clouded, but her eyes were unblinking.

Next to her, Mary had fallen into a sleep bordering on comatose. She was completely still and silent; she hadn't moved an inch the entire night. Occasionally, Dwight or Quinn would tap her gently to make sure she was still alive, and her eyes would flicker open, but after making eye contact for only a moment, they would snap back shut. Quinn could tell that Mary wasn't able to cope with what was happening around her and figured that this deadly sleep was a way of avoiding it.

She was afraid to imagine what would happen to Mary if Sam died. Dwight was reacting exactly how she would expect a parent to react under these circumstances. At first he was afraid but tried to be strong for those around him. Then his fear had risen to the point of desperation. A few hours after the doctor told them about Sam's dire condition, Dwight had broken down and started sobbing. It lasted only a minute, but it broke Quinn's heart.

When his eyes were dry, he explained to Quinn that Sam had come into the world by accident. He and Mary were young, and Mary hadn't finished college yet. They had discussed terminating the pregnancy, but ultimately both of their faiths had prevented them from ending his life before it began. Then when he was born, they were in such awe of the tiny life they had created that they couldn't even fathom how they had considered not having him. He had brought such joy to them and changed their lives forever. Stevie and Stacy were much younger than Sam, conceived at a time in their parents lives' when they could afford to have them. But now they couldn't imagine life without Sam, without their first child who taught them what it was to love unconditionally.

Quinn had been forced to brush tears away from her eyes. She was sure that this was something Dwight would never have told her had the circumstances been different, but she was glad he had shared it with her. It reminded her so much of her own situation with Beth that the story tore at her heart. She knew giving Beth away was the only really option for her and for her child. But she envied Dwight, who got to raise his son and watch him grow into a broad smiling, perpetually happy young man. She would never get that with Beth. But, on the other hand, her pain was only speculative. Her heart would ache when she wondered what Beth was doing. Dwight's pain was very, very real.

But Mary was reacting so differently. She hadn't cried, she had barely said a word, and inside, Quinn could tell she was distancing herself from her son and the fact that he might be inflicting upon her the greatest injury of her life. If Sam died, Quinn wondered if she would ever recover enough to be a mother to Stevie and Stacy. Or would she form a barrier between herself and them, in case they hurt her too? Quinn vowed never to leave them. Even if Sam died, and she technically no longer had a connection to the Evans family, she swore to herself that she would never turn her back on the two little blonde children. She promised to look out for them and provide a maternal figure for them if Mary was unable to. She would do this for them, for Sam, for herself, and for Beth.

Without warning, the small doctor popped through the door again, and Quinn shot to her feet. Despite having operated all through the night, he was looking distinctly alert. Dwight staggered to his feet and leaned down to gently shake Mary awake. She groaned and allowed herself to be lifted to face the doctor.

"Well," the doctor said, a smile forming at the corners of his lips, "It's good news. Sam is going to be fine."

Mary collapsed to the floor shaking and sobbing. An onlooker wouldn't have been able to tell if she had just received the best news of her life, or the worst. Rejoicing, Dwight knelt down to wrap his arms tightly around his fragile wife. The doctor reached out to take Quinn's hands and hold them in a firm grip.

"Are you his sister?" he asked politely.

"His girlfriend," she responded quietly.

"Ah," the doctor said with a smile. "I apologize for the mistake. You look just like him."

Quinn smiled. She hadn't really thought about it before, but the doctor was right. She and Sam did look a lot alike. They looked cute together.

When Dwight managed to curb Mary's sobs and lift her from the floor to a chair, the doctor motioned for them to sit. He took a chair beside them and spun it to face them.

The doctor started, "As I mentioned, Sam is going to be fine. However, I want you all to understand that he's been through a lot. His injuries were severe, and he's going to be in a great deal of pain. There will be a long road to recovery, physically and mentally. He's going to need your patience and support."

They all nodded wearily.

"The knife wound to his back completely destroyed one of his kidneys, and we weren't able to save it. Of course, he can live a normal, healthy life with only one kidney, but if he has any kind of kidney failure years down the road, it becomes a problem then. There was another stab wound here, just below his belly button," the doctor explained, pointing to his own lower abdomen.

"This wound caused us quite a bit of difficulty, but we were able to stop the internal bleeding and stabilize it. We had to remove a small piece of the intestine and reattach it, but again, this isn't something that should cause lasting health concerns."

"As I mentioned when we spoke earlier, Sam was shot in the leg, but the bullet passed through his hamstring and exited through his thigh clearly. We repaired the muscle damage and stitched up the wound, and we expect it to heal without complications. The bullet wound appears to have occurred substantially earlier than the other serious injuries because the blood was already clotted when Sam was brought here."

"You said he was, he was tortured?" Dwight asked, trying to take in everything the doctor had explained to him. To him, it sounded like his son was a bag of parts they had sliced and diced and reattached and stitched. He didn't sound like a person anymore. Dwight was honestly afraid of what he'd see when they were finally allowed to visit Sam.

"Yes, I'm afraid that seems to be the case," the doctor responded. "He presented with deep bruising covering his abdomen and a few fractures to his ribs. I would suspect that he was beaten with fists or possibly a bat of some kind. His nose is shattered, and that's caused bruising and swelling in both eyes. There is also some bruising around his wrists, indicating that he was probably bound at some point. You'll also see a very deep bruising around his throat that looks like a collar. I believe that was caused by some kind of wire or cord that was used to strangle him. His back has some cuts and bleeding that look like whip lashes. He's been abused very badly."

Quinn shuddered, willing herself to not think of how scared Sam must have been when all of this was happening to him. She felt an aching all over her body as she tried to put herself in his position.

"When can we see him?" Dwight asked, his eyes sad but anxious.

"Well," the doctor sighed, "There's something else we need to discuss."

Quinn stiffened. What else could there possibly be? He'd been through so much, she had no idea how they were going to bring him back from the hell that probably burned itself inside him.

"I'm so sorry to have to tell you all this. Sam's been the victim of very severe sexual assault."

"Assault?" Mary asked, "I-I don't understand. What does that actually mean? Like, someone touched him?"

The doctor looked down again, clasping his hands together and running one thumb over the other. He looked up, "Again, I'm very sorry. He's been raped. Very brutally. We performed an anal reconstructive procedure and were able to repair most of the damage. Physically, he's going to be all right, but mentally, there's no telling what state he'll be in."

Quinn was in a state of shock. Raped? She had never really thought of a boy being raped. For a Christian girl, she was very understanding of homosexuality. And she understood in general terms how gay men had sex with each other. But she had never heard of gay men committing acts of sexual violence. She just assumed all gay men were like Kurt—delicate, sexless, and incapable of violence. Is that what this was all about? Some guy kidnapped Sam and almost killed him because Sam is hot and he wanted to have sex with him? Quinn was having a hard time imagining this. So there was some guy, driving around the streets of Lima, horny, and looking for a teenaged boy to sleep with? But Sam is strong . . . she was just so confused.

Beside her, Dwight expressed her confusion. "Doctor, I'm sorry, I don't understand this," he said, shaking his head. "My son is very strong. He plays football, and he works out religiously. He's not . . ." he paused, looking around and lowering his voice. "He's not gay. And he wouldn't let what you're saying happened . . . he wouldn't let someone do that to him. I don't understand."

"Mr. Evans," the doctor started, realizing he was getting dangerously close to an area that was not his expertise. "No one is saying that Sam's gay, or that he wanted this. In fact, his body shows the exact opposite. Trust me when I tell you he didn't have a choice in this. This is going to be hard to hear, but we found at least three distinct DNA samples on him, possibly a fourth. I'm sure Sam is very strong, but he is still a child, and he wouldn't be able to overpower three or four adult men, especially ones armed with the kinds of weapons we know were used against Sam."

"In him, you mean," Dwight stated dryly.

"I'm sorry?"

"The DNA samples. You mean you found them in him."

"Yes."

Dwight nodded tersely and leaned back in his chair, looking out the window. Quinn could see a quiet rage beginning to burn inside of him.

"When can I see my son," he asked, not turning his eyes away from the window. Quinn knew his anger was reaching a boiling point and hoped the doctor chose his words wisely. The doctor was getting uncomfortable and was starting to fidget. Quinn remained silent, not wanting to inject herself into the horrible tension building around her.

"I understand that you want to see Sam, Mr. Evans, but in situations like these we usually recommend that the family of the victim speak with a rape crisis counselor before talking to the victim. Victims of sexual assault are very vulnerable, and Sam could be especially so because he's young and he's male. Often family and friends can't understand what the victim has been through or what's going on in their mind, and they say something that can turn out to be very traumatic for the victim."

Dwight's eyes snapped back to the doctor. "Are you implying that I'm going to hurt my son, Doctor?" Dwight leaned forward, his eyes narrowing.

"Of course not, Mr. Evans. I'm sure you would never do anything to intentionally hurt your son. But Sam may not be the boy you remember him as, and the rape crisis counselor can be very helpful in learning how to handle him now. Dr. Poluski is a very good therapist, she works with many male victims, and I think she . . ."

Dwight shot to his feet, the rage finally bursting through him. "I'm sorry, _Doctor_," he started, pronouncing the word harshly, "But if you think some shrink is going to teach me how to _handle_ my own son, you're . . ."

"Dwight." Mary's voice was so soft that it silenced her husband, and all eyes turned to her. She hadn't spoken all night.

"He's probably right, you know," she whispered. "Sam's hurting, and we have no idea how to help him. If this therapist can help us help him, then we need to talk to her."

Dwight collapsed into his seat, his anger diffused. He took his wife's delicate hand between his own and raised it to his lips, placing a gentle kiss on it. "Ok," he said nodding, "Ok."

The doctor nodded, glad to be out of this difficult position. "I'll send Dr. Poluski out in a few minutes to meet with you. It's going to be very difficult, no doubt. But try to remember that it will help Sam." The doctor stood and placed a hand on Dwight's shoulder, and the other on Mary's. "Just remember that as bad as things seem, you have your son back, and that's what's really important." They thanked the doctor, and he left the room.

Dwight sighed and leaned forward, his elbows falling onto his knees. He dropped his face into his hands and raked his fingers through his graying blond hair. This was spinning out of control. He was beyond grateful to God that his child was alive and apparently going to be fine. But this was all just too much for him to comprehend. The doctor was talking about his son like he was a game of Operation—this part missing, that part replaced, reconstructed this, destroyed that.

And now the doctor is telling him that Sam was raped? It was just about the last thought that crossed his mind. When the doctor first said it, he wanted to tell the man that he must be mistaken. Innocent, vulnerable girls were raped; it was something he would always fear for his young daughter. But not his strong, athletic son. He had never heard of a man being raped before. How could he help Sam cope with what had happened to him if he didn't even understand it himself? Maybe Mary was right. Maybe they did need this shrink.

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Roslin Poluski was not what most people thought of when they imagined therapists. She was in her mid thirties, and rather beautiful in a unique, organic way. She was tall and willowy with mousy brown hair that fell in waves to the tops of her shoulders. She had keen blue eyes behind spectacles perched on a hawkish nose. Dwight thought that her navy slacks with wide-flaring legs made her look a bit like a love child, though she was far too young.

She had gotten a call from Dr. Arnold Di that morning, reporting a teenaged male victim of extreme sexual trauma. It piqued her interest. Although she counseled all rape victims, her research focused on male victims of violent assault, particularly adult ones. Much work had been done on child victims of sexual abuse, and the research tended to prove that children under a certain age were sexless to perpetrators. It's at that young age, then, that there tend to be almost equal numbers of male and female victims. But there was hardly any research done on adult male victims. Not men seeking counseling over childhood sexual abuse by a neighbor or a family member, but men who had been violently assaulted after puberty. Counselors didn't know what to do with them, and Roslin had been working for years on developing a therapy program to fill that void. It was slow work, though, as male victims were rarer, under-reported, and often reluctant to seek help on their own. So when she got the call that morning, Roslin jumped at the opportunity to work with Sam Evans and his family.

After the family had agreed to speak with her, Dr. Di took her into the post-op room where the teenager was recovering from almost ten hours of surgery. Physically, he was a wreck. Possibly the worst she'd ever seen. By the damage done, it was clear to her that there were multiple attackers, and Dr. Di confirmed her suspicion with the evidence they had found on Sam. She could see why he had called her to speak with the boy's family before they went in to see him. When they did see him, they would be in for a horrible shock.

She stepped into the waiting room.

"Mr. and Mrs. Evans?" she asked the disheveled couple sitting in the waiting room. "I'm Dr. Roslin Poluski." They stood to shake her hand. "And is this your daughter?" she asked, gesturing to Quinn. "Sam's girlfriend," Mr. Evans answered. "Ah, I see," she said, smiling to the young girl. She gestured for them to have a seat and pulled a chair for herself into a circle with them.

"Let me first say that I am so sorry about what happened to your son. He's going to have a long recovery ahead of him, but having a positive support system is a huge part of that process."

They all nodded.

"Dr. Di called me to meet with you all before Sam wakes up from surgery because there is a great deal of confusion surrounding male victims of violent sexual crimes. Sam will be confused, I'm sure you all are very confused, and it's important to have some understanding so that you can help him."

"The most prevalent misconception about male rape victims is that they are gay, and that they somehow attracted or provoked their attackers. This just isn't true. Rape has nothing to do with the sexuality of the victim, male or female. Often, it doesn't even have to do with the sexuality of the attackers. Often, it's entirely about exerting power over the victim. It's possible that Sam's attackers were sexually attracted to him and acted violently on that frustration. It's more likely, though, that they saw Sam as a physically powerful individual for them to reduce to weakness and vulnerability. The perpetrators may not even be homosexual themselves."

"Having been subjected to this kind of violent subordination, it would not be unusual for Sam to question himself. He will almost certainly have a deeply rooted sense of shame surrounding the attack, and he may question whether he did something to deserve it. He may wonder whether there is something about him that exudes homosexuality and drew these men to him."

"Again, I want to be clear that this isn't the case. Whatever motives these men had for attacking Sam, it was not because he did something to bring it on. He didn't ask for it, he didn't want it, and he didn't deserve it. Attacks like the one Sam suffered are extremely traumatic, and he will have emotional scars from it for the rest of his life. For that reason, it's extremely important how you, as the people who love him most, address this situation."

"I've unfortunately had this discussion with a number of families, often with conservative religious beliefs, who feel that if their son has been raped, he must be gay. They treat him as if he has just come out to them about his sexuality, and they disapprove. They often treat their sons as if they have done something morally wrong, rather than as the victims of violent crimes. I've even heard the circular reasoning, 'If this happened to you, you must be gay, and since you're gay, you deserved this.' They treat him with scorn and disgust and sometimes even disown him. The rejection from family and friends is often more painful and long lasting than the memories from the attack itself. It can be very traumatic."

"I sincerely hope that this won't be the case with your family. I believe that you all love Sam and want him to get better. You wouldn't be sitting here listening to this if you didn't. The best thing you can do for him when you go in there is reassure him that you love him. He'll wonder whether this was his fault. Reassure him that it wasn't. Just keep reminding him that he is the same person you all loved before this happened, and that you'll be there for him to support him through all of this."

She wasn't sure which part of what she had said struck them, but the three people sitting before her were all crying. Sam's mother was nearly sobbing, while tears streamed slowly down his father and girlfriend's faces. Roslin gave this speech many times, and sometimes she had to remind herself that this is the only time these people have ever gone through something like this. For the families that believed their sons must have done something to deserve this, nothing she could say could change their minds. But for the ones who truly wanted to help their children get better, she liked to believe that she made a difference. She helped them avoid the "Why did this happen" and the "How did you let this happen" questions that she knew would create deep, unintentional wounds.

She placed one light hand on the girl's knee, and the other on Mr. Evans'. Mrs. Evans sat between the two and was supported by loving arms around her shoulders.

"Do you all have any questions for me before you go to see Sam?"

The girl's quivering voice spoke first. "You said we should tell him that he's the same person he used to be, the same person we loved . . . Will he be the same person?"

Roslin pondered the question. It was impossible to answer in a way that would satisfy the girl.

"It's hard to tell. Every victim responds differently. Parts of him will be the same as they were yesterday. But there will almost certainly be changes. He will probably be somewhat different than you remember him. He was attacked very brutally, and it would be difficult for him to survive that without coming out of it somewhat changed. Only time will tell what those changes will be."

The girl nodded, her eyes glancing down at the floor.

Dr. Di leaned his head through the doors. "I should warn you that he's on a heavy morphine drip to manage the pain, and he's quite woozy from the surgery, but Sam's awake now, if you'd like to see him," he said with a smile.

Roslin squeezed Mr. and Mrs. Evans' hands and smiled at them reassuringly. They looked nervous, bordering on terrified. "Don't worry," Roslin said, "You'll do fine. You love him, and that will show through. Now go see him."

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**Hey everyone, so now that you know that Sam's going to be all right, here's a tiny little bit about where the story's going. First, we'll be delving into Sam's recovery, and as he progresses, a criminal investigation, and ultimately a trial. **

**Here's where I need your input. There will be an FBI investigation into Sam's kidnapping, ultimately connecting his case to the others out of state. I love Criminal Minds, and I would like to incorporate some of the characters into the investigation. This will not turn into a crossover story; I intend to only use their names and descriptions of them when writing the investigation. No spin-off plotlines with those characters. If you don't watch the show, you won't know the difference between these characters and characters like Taylor and Addie or Dr. Poluski. However, if you feel that having named characters from another show would be distracting, please say so now and I'll invent some new FBI agents. Thanks for reading!**


	14. Chapter 14

**Here's a bit into everyone's psyche. Sam and Quinn to come later. Enjoy the chapter!**

Chapter 14

Detective Andy DeLancey shouldered his way through the glass door to the main working space of the Lima Police Department, holding two cups of steaming, black coffee in his hands. He had been lucky. Since the budget cuts last spring, it was hard to get a fresh cup of brew. They even stopped stocking cream and sugar in the lounge. But his partner liked his coffee strong anyway, so Andy would just have to suffer in silence.

Handing one cup down to his partner, Tom, Andy pulled a chair up behind Tom's desk and sat down beside him. Tom was wiggling a pencil between his teeth and fiddling around with the computer's display settings. Tom wasn't usually this bad with computers, but they were both exhausted. They had led the search of the woods all night, only for the missing kid to resurface about five miles down the road from where they were looking.

Of course they were thrilled and relieved that the kid was found alive, and from the reports coming back from the hospital, it seemed like the kid was going to be fine. But after the ambulance had taken him, there was another large, bloody crime scene to process, and it had been a long night. So far, they didn't have a lot to go on. Nobody had seen a thing, either at the first or second scene. Andy had interviewed the young couple that found the boy, but they hadn't seen anything either.

The kid had several fatal injuries, so there was no way he had drug himself five miles up the road; it was definitely a kidnapping. And from what they were hearing from the hospital, this was a brutal sex crime. They ran the DNA samples recovered from the boy's body through the statewide database, and although they didn't hit any matches to DNA already in the system, all four samples were a match to another rape and murder case near Cincinnati. That case was a couple years old and was on the cold shelf. They'd never had a male victim of this kind of crime in Lima, and the two detectives weren't sure if they should proceed as if it were a female victim, or throw their training out the window and start over.

But the hospital had sent back something else as well. As the trauma team cut off his clothing to prep him for surgery, they found a silver CD stuffed down his shorts. They had bagged it, along with his sliced and bloodied gym shorts, and sent it over to the department for processing. After forensics was done dusting it for fingerprints, Andy and Tom were finally going to get a look at it. Andy hoped it would give them something big, something that would help them break the case.

"Got ya popcorn ready?" Tom asked with a gruff laugh, finally getting the computer's monitor set up. Andy scoffed. He was too tired for bad attempts at humor. Tom popped the disc in and hit play.

The first scene was of a blond head leaning into a car window and pointing out directions on a map. The blond hair, green eyes, and wide lips all matched; definitely their victim. The kid's eyes widened as a gun was pointed in his face, and he darted towards the woods. The adult man in the passenger seat aimed and fired at their fleeing victim, hitting him in the back of his left leg and dropping him to the ground.

"So there's our puddle of blood on the side of the road," Tom said, jotting down the time and a few notes on a notepad. "Looks like we got four perps. Makes sense, kid's strong. They used numbers and weapons to overpower him. All right, let's keep it going."

Andy hit play again. The scene cut to a close up of the kid, naked, draped over a couch. One of the perp's hands reached down to grab the kid by the hair and wrench his face up into the camera. He was banged up. His nose was broken and bleeding, and both of his eyes were blackened.

"_Hey everybody, this is Sam," a deep voice came from behind the boy, but all that showed in the shot was the kid's trembling lips and wide, blinking eyes. "Sam is fifteen, and we found him at football practice outside his high school in Ohio. Say hi to everybody at home, Sammy."_

"Shit," Tom muttered, eyes glued to the screen.

"_Sammy, do you want me to pop that cherry with the gun? No? Then say hi to all the nice men at home."_

"_H-h-hi."_

The kid's voice was little more than a whisper on the tape, and his eyes avoided looking directly into the camera.

"_Sam's a feisty kid, sorry we had to rough him up. But I'm sure you can see past the broken nose and black eyes and tell that he's a real beauty. Ok, Sammy, time to become a man."_

Both detectives' eyes shot away from the screen as the scene cut to between the boy's legs, where he was being violently deflowered. The sound of his screams filled the room.

"Tom," Andy breathed, his shock and disbelief making it impossible for him to speak normally. He spoke more to make his thoughts real for himself than to inform his partner. "They're running a kiddie porn ring. They raped him to sell the footage of it."

But Tom wasn't listening. He was in his own world. Quickly inserting a blank CD into the auxiliary drive, he burned a copy and removed the original.

Handing Andy the original, he began barking out orders. "Get this down to Tech, I need the metadata off of it. I need to know where it came from, how it was made, where it's been transmitted, and how many times. Get the Chief up here, he needs to see this."

Andy took the CD and turned to the door. His partner's voice stopped him. "And Andy? As soon as the Chief gets up here, get on the phone with the FBI. We're going to need some help here."

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Dwight and Mary followed Dr. Di through the double doors to the post-op recovery room. Quinn had wanted to come too, but Dwight insisted that she get some rest first. The poor thing had been up all night, and it was probably her unwavering faith and prayers that pulled Sam through this. Another doctor was able to find an empty hospital bed for her to sleep in, and Dwight had convinced her by promising that he would bring her to Sam as soon as they were done visiting with him. She had reluctantly agreed and allowed the doctor to lead her to another room. Now, Dwight was going to see his son for the first time since this all started a few days ago.

If he was being completely honest with himself, he was terrified. He was afraid of what Sam would look like and afraid that he would be too full of shock and pain to even recognize his parents. He was afraid that the relationship they had built over the years—the kind that most fathers and sons could only dream of—would be forever ruined by some psychopath trying to get his rocks off.

He and Sam hadn't always been best friends. There was a time, before Sam started growing and developing into a talented athlete, that he and his son fought. When Sam was about eleven or twelve, Dwight had pushed him hard to improve himself. Like all the other boys his age, Sam wanted to play video games, watch TV, and chase girls around the local movie theater. But Dwight pushed him to go for runs, work out more often, and practice his football and baseball skills. Sam had pushed back, and words were exchanged.

Dwight had never, and would never, hit his son other than the occasional well-deserved spanking when he was younger, but there were times when Sam would come home from school and go straight up to his room without speaking to anyone all night. Maybe resulting from a change of heart, or maybe to spite his father, Sam did eventually start going for runs and throwing angry passes through a tire in their backyard. As he started to grow into his lanky body, Dwight could tell Sam was pleased with the results. His body was well-defined and muscular, drawing attention from all the girls at his school. He was performing better than he ever had at the sports he loved. By the end of his freshman football season, Sam had won the starting quarterback spot away from a junior.

One Friday night, after Sam had played a particularly excellent game at quarterback against his Tennessee high school's district rival, he slipped down quietly on the couch next to Dwight. Without turning his eyes away from the TV, he whispered a quiet, "Thank you." "For what?" Dwight had asked. "For making me want to be better," was Sam's reply. From that night on, Sam had come to his father for everything, and never again doubted his advice. Over the past three years, he and Sam had really come to be best friends. Dwight knew his son was getting popular, but he knew that he didn't have a single friend he trusted the way he trusted his dad.

Now, as he went in to see his son for the first time after his traumatic experience, he hoped that Sam would remember enough about himself to confide in and lean on his dad as he had done with everything else in his young life.

The doctor pushed the door open and waved them inside. Dwight stood frozen in his tracks. The only thing immediately recognizable about his son was his mess of light blond hair. The rest was so badly damaged that it could have been anybody really. Both eyes were black and swollen over a broken nose, and the hospital gown couldn't hide the strangulation marks around his neck. Wires and IV drips were attached to him at multiple points in his arms and hands. He looked so much different than the boy Dwight was used to; he looked fragile, like even the weight of the hospital gown and the blanket were crushing him.

Sam stared straight ahead, not shifting his gaze when his parents entered the room. Dwight and Mary pulled chairs close to the bedrail and sat silently beside their son. The doctor excused himself.

The first thing Dwight noticed about his son was his eyes. They were darker. Sam was a terrible liar. His eyes gave him away every time. No matter what he was feeling, the emotion showed through them. Dwight was used to his son's eyes shining bright with excitement. They supplied their own light. Watching Sam react to things was a joy because his eyes always lit up like he was doing or experiencing something for the very first time. Every time he played his guitar, or picked up a football, or played with his siblings, or held Quinn's hand . . . his bright eyes always exuded the joy of living some great new life.

Now they were dark, flat, lifeless. Normally a bright blue-green, they were now the dark blue-black of the crashing ocean. He stared out as if he saw nothing, felt nothing. All the light and animation were gone from behind them. Dwight felt a deep sinking in his stomach. Sam's eyes couldn't lie, and if this is what they were saying about him, Dwight was afraid that meant he was void and lifeless on the inside too.

He reached out to lay his hand over his son's and gently squeeze it. His hand was freezing cold and still.

"Sam," Dwight whispered. There was no response. Sam's dead eyes stared straight ahead.

"Sam," he tried again, giving the cold hand a small squeeze. Still nothing.

"Sammy," he choked out. He was so afraid that he would never get his child back. This body laying here broken and abused was just a shell of him.

Slowly, the eyes broke from their fixation on a spot on the wall. They turned to him and held his gaze for a moment. Dwight was chilled by what he saw. This lifeless zombie was not the boy who begged his parents to babysit his little brother and sister. It was not the boy whose heart raced uncontrollably every single time his girlfriend passed him in the hall.

But then Sam's face began to crumple. It started so slowly that Dwight wasn't sure if the change was real at all, or if he was just willing it to happen. Sam's blond brows began to knit in the center. Then his cracked and bleeding lips began to tremble. His eyes widened, and crystal tears began to perch precariously in the corners. The color was returning to Sam's eyes, and now Dwight could clearly see his agony behind them.

Face contorted, the sobs finally took over Sam and began to shake his entire body. He tried to draw his knees up to his chest to hide his shame, but the pain from the surgical wound in his abdomen stopped him. Instead, he curled his arms up in front of his face, fingers locking tightly into his hair. His shoulders heaved from the force of the sobs, and the only sound filling the room was his guttural groans and choking hiccups.

Dwight stood and reached a hand to Sam's back to stroke him gently. The hospital gown, tied only at his shoulders, revealed angry red welts and badly blistered skin where he was apparently whipped. Dwight let his shaking fingers trace carefully around the open marks. "How could anyone do this to him?" Dwight wondered, the anger in him rising again, "He's just a kid. And such a good kid."

Sam let his arms fall from in front of his face. The shaking was beginning to ease. Looking up, he locked eyes with his father. Dwight could see they were full of terror.

"P-p-please," he stammered. Dwight rubbed slow circles into his back, trying to comfort him.

"Anything, Sammy. Just tell us what you need."

"P-please don't call me that."

Dwight's eyes shot to Mary's. Dear God. What had they done to him.

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When Sam first opened his eyes that morning, he noticed the sun shining in through the cracks in the blinds. He was in a bed, alone. This wasn't the motel. Normally, at the motel, he and his dad awoke naturally around the same time, before the sun was strong enough to wake the others. He would sit up on his tattered sleeping bag on the floor and rub his eyes, taking in what he thought was the sight of a perfect family before him.

His mom and dad laid on their sides at either end of the bed, arms extended out over the two blond, drooling babies huddled between them. They were still babies to Sam; they would be no matter how old they got. Yeah, they were all living in a motel room, and the perfect family shouldn't have to cram four people into a bed. But they were perfect to him, and no one could tell him differently.

But something wasn't right. He was in a bed, alone.

Then he noticed the wires and tubes extending from his arms and connecting him to beeping machines all around him. Everything around him was stark white. And the pain. It was dull, masked by the vast quantities of morphine being pumped into him, but Sam could tell that underneath that shield, it was massive and unrelenting. The memories of everything that had happened to him in the past few days flooded back over him, and he began to shut down.

He tried hard to prevent himself from feeling. The morphine was making the physical pain tolerable. Now, he needed to prevent the other kind of pain from ripping through him. He succeeded in numbing himself for fifteen minutes. But then the doctor led his parents in. Sam knew that if he looked at them, he would come undone. So he stared the other direction. His mom and dad were gasping. Sam didn't know what he looked like, but he imagined it was pretty bad. "I'm hurting them," he thought, desperately, and searched for a way to make it stop.

The only thing he could think to do was make himself number, colder. If they couldn't see the pain threatening to shred him, they couldn't feel it either. So he tried, hard. His eyes were flat and unmoving. It was getting easier. He didn't feel anything. He hoped they didn't either. He never wanted anyone to have to see him like this. He never meant to hurt them. He loved them, and he hated himself for causing them this pain. If he could only keep it from reaching them.

Then his dad started calling to him, gently.

"Be strong," Sam warned himself. "You'll break their hearts. Don't let them see you hurt."

He struggled to avoid his parents' gazes. He was desperate to save them from this. In the last few days, he had held no power to save himself from the terror and pain he had suffered. He felt weak and helpless, like a child no bigger or stronger than Stevie or Stacy. But this he could do. He couldn't save himself, but he could save them from the pain of seeing the disastrous wreck he had become. "Be stronger, be stronger," Sam chanted to himself.

_Sammy._

The simple word and loving pet name cut through his defense and slammed into his consciousness, injecting a wave of terrible memory into his core.

_Say hi to everyone at home, Sammy._

_Don't worry Sammy. After you're gone, I'll tell Katie you moaned like a whore._

_Sammy, come on out, sweetheart. I'm not going to hurt you._

_Sammy, I love you. I love you, Sammy._

Sam wished he was a better person, a stronger man. He wished he could shield his family forever from the pain that gripped him. But it wouldn't be today. He felt himself teetering and started to cry.

"Stupid, stupid, stupid," Sam berated himself. "You're weak. It probably would have been easier for them if you had died. At least then they could put you in the ground and it would be over." He tugged at his hair, sending shock waves of searing pain rippling through him. "It'll never be enough."

"P-please don't call me that," he whispered. He couldn't even prevent the stammer from claiming his voice. "Stupid, weak whore," he hurt himself again.

"Why, baby?" his dad asked him gently, rubbing soft fingers into his back, "Why?"

"They, they, that's what they," Sam was trying his hardest. "That's what they called me when they . . ."

"Shh, baby," Dwight murmured.

"Sam, look at me," he commanded gently, using a finger to lift Sam's chin. "They can't hurt you anymore, ok? We're going to protect you now."

Sam closed his eyes, slowly, allowing himself to take in the feel of his father's touch.

"And Sam?" his eyes opened again. "We're so sorry."


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15

Sam inhaled deeply, trying to drag air into his constricting lungs and control his heart. Every muscle in his body tensed as his heart pumped rapid shockwaves through him. He held himself steady and forced a shaking smile on his face as his parents hugged him goodbye. They had to go home and get some rest, and look after Stevie and Stacy. But as soon as they were out of the room, he was gasping for breath and shaking. They had been so kind to him.

He didn't understand why they still loved him. He prepared himself for their rejection. Sam was ready for his dad to spit in his face and call him a faggot and tell him he never wanted to see him again. And he would've taken it. It's not that he thought his father was that kind of man. His father was gentle and kind. He wouldn't expect his dad to condemn Kurt like that, or anyone else for that matter. He was a good person, and he always said he loved unconditionally. But somehow this felt different.

This was his own son, and Sam had never, ever wanted to disappoint his dad. Whenever he caught a touchdown pass, he would look up in the stands to see if his dad was watching. He was working his butt off to win that quarterback spot away from Finn, but even though he wasn't the single star on the team, he still felt like he made his dad proud. And making his dad proud was the single most important thing in the world.

Now, Sam couldn't shake the feeling that he'd failed. He'd allowed himself to be beaten and tortured. He'd allowed them to do those . . . repulsive things to him. If he had been bigger, stronger, more of a man, he could have stopped it. Now he was barely a man at all, reduced to a trembling child with catastrophic injuries. He had allowed them to make him a victim, and it made him sick. How could his dad be proud of him when he had been so weak? He kept trying to tell himself that it wasn't his fault, that it could have happened to anyone. If Finn or Puck had gone running with him, there was as good a chance as any that they would have chosen one of them instead. No one would have been able to stop them. But it didn't sit right with him. He expected more from himself. He always expected more.

His parents hadn't reacted as he had expected, though. Instead of insulting him and telling him that he was a failure, they kept telling him that they loved him over his protests. They told him it wasn't his fault. They told him he didn't deserve the pain he was in. That he wasn't a bad person or a bad son. That he hadn't brought this on himself. That being brutalized didn't make him gay, or disgusting, or less than a man.

His mom had tried hard to ease his pain in the best way she knew how. She stood next to his bed, despite her obvious exhaustion, running her fingertips through his hair and pressing an icy cloth to his swollen eyes. Ever since he was a little boy, he loved the feeling of his mom's fingers against his scalp, and even though it briefly brought memories of Tyler's cruel hand shoving his face into the camera and tearing out clumps of blond hair, those evaporated as quickly as they came.

His dad, too, did his best. He talked about football, baseball, Stevie and Stacy, job hunting . . . whatever he could think of to try to make Sam feel like the world hadn't just collapsed underneath him. Even their homelessness was normal and familiar compared to what Sam had just been through, and he craved the warmth and security that came from living side by side with the people he loved most. He actually missed the motel room.

When a nurse had come in and quietly announced that she needed to clean his wounds, his dad kissed his mom and gently led her out of the room. Sam knew his dad understood how devastated he would be if his mom had to see the evidence of abuse on his body. When he came back in, the nurse was slowly peeling the hospital gown away from Sam's trembling skin. Sam knew it was for his sake that his dad attempted to suppress the look of shock threatening to take over his face. Deep purple and blue bruises covered his entire torso, and the surgical scar covered almost the entire distance between his narrow hips.

Sam's hands shook as he touched his fingers to the thickly stitched scar.

"I'm a freak," he whispered, more to himself than his dad or the nurse.

His dad had taken Sam's face in his hands, his fingers slipping gently behind his ears. He turned his face away from the hospital bed where his broken body lay sprawled out before him.

"Look at me, Sam," he said sternly.

"You're the same person you were two days ago. When you were missing, your mother and I, and Quinn, we all thought that we were never going to see you again. That we'd never get to talk to you again. We were terrified. Then when the doctor told us that you'd live, he said you had been through so much trauma that we might not even recognize you as the boy we raised. But now that I see you, Sam, I know. You're exactly the son I raised. You're exactly the person we love and adore.

"I could see in your eyes that you didn't want your mother to see your injuries because you knew it would hurt her. That's the kid I know. You have the same heart in there and the same good-natured soul."

"This," he said, gesturing down the length of Sam's body, "This will all heal, and you'll be running around again chasing Stevie and Stacy in no time. I know it's going to take a lot longer for you to heal emotionally, and we're going to be there for that. But I know you're going to survive it because when I look at you, I still see my son in there. And I know my son is strong, and he's a hard worker, and he's a fighter. You tackle this like you've tackled everything else in your life, and I know you'll make it."

Sam felt the tears stinging in his eyes but was able to force them back as his dad patted his head. He would try his hardest, and he hoped he wouldn't let his dad down.

It was only after they left that he began to feel the intense, gripping pressure. The pressure that was making him choke for breath. It actually would have been so much easier if they hated and disowned him. He would have let himself fall to pieces. Knowing no one cared meant he didn't have to care, and he didn't have to try, and he didn't have to fight the demons lurking inside. He could just let them win, because no one cared what kind of shipwreck he turned into. But they did care. They loved him. And they needed their son back—their perfect, blond, athletic, happy-go-lucky son. Sam knew that was something he couldn't give them without fighting for it. He was so scared he'd fail.

As Sam tried to catch his breath, Quinn slipped in the door sheepishly. Every single time he saw her, she made him feel weak and fluttery. "Fluttery?" Sam thought, "Is that even a word? Well, it is now." That's how she made him feel, fluttery. Like he had to struggle to keep his body from floating away. Or like when the bottom first drops out on a rollercoaster. Her eyes were crusty and red, he clothes were disheveled and flecked with mud, and her hair hung in greasy, crumpled strands, but she was the most beautiful thing Sam had ever seen in his life.

She stepped over to the side of his bed, and Sam tried to swallow the lump out of his throat. She did this to him every, freaking, time. Hesitantly, she laid a soft, light hand down on his chest, just over his heart.

"Sam, you're shaking," she whispered.

It was true. Up until today, the most vulnerable he had ever allowed her to see him was when he had kneeled down in front of her in the astronomy room and offered her a tiny, gold ring. He had told her he wanted to marry her someday, opening himself up to the possibility of ridicule and rejection. Shameless, she had called him. He had put himself out there, unafraid of how much power he had given her to hold over him. Now, he was truly vulnerable. She was seeing him after four people had tried their best to destroy him, physically and emotionally. So, shaking? Yes. Terrified? Absolutely.

"Why are you touching me, Quinn?" Blond lashes fluttered down to cover eyes full of shame. "Aren't you disgusted by me?"

Quinn's hand shot back as if his skin was hot as a stovetop. "Sam, I-I don't understand. Did I do something wrong? Did I hurt you?" Worry plagued her trembling voice.

"No, I . . . You didn't do anything, I just . . ." Sam felt himself fumbling, the fear of her rejection mixing with the morphine and pain to create a dizziness he was struggling to overcome. He stopped, took a deep breath, and tried again.

"They told you what happened, right?"

Quinn looked away, ashamed. She felt awkward standing at his bedside. She wasn't sure what to do with her hands. First she tried placing them on her hips, but thought she looked too stern and dropped them to the hem of her skirt. Feeling herself fidgeting and tugging at it uncomfortably, she clasped her hands together. Noticing her discomfort, Sam reached out and took her hands in his, calming her with a gentle strength. He looked up at her as best he could through swollen eyes.

She sighed. "Yes. I mean, only in general terms, nothing really specific. They said you were . . . I mean. Yeah, I was there when the doctor told your parents what they, what they did to you."

It was Sam's turn to look away, though he kept her hands in his.

"And I don't disgust you?"

She looked at him in shock. She understood now what he was implying.

"What? Sam, you can't possibly think . . . Of course not! You didn't, it wasn't your fault. You didn't do anything!" Her eyes looked wild and desperate, as if convincing him of this one thing was the only thing in the world that actually mattered.

Sam bit into his lower lip, wincing at the spot where the flesh was broken.

"Sam, please. I don't think, I still . . ."

"It's just that you're too good, Quinn," Sam blurted. "You're better than the rest of us. You're better than everyone at that stupid school. I got to this school and you were like this, this beautiful goddess ruling over everyone. You were the most beautiful girl I'd ever seen."

"Sam, really, I . . ."

"I just wanted a chance with you, ya know? I thought I'd chase after you like every other guy, and that would be good enough. I never thought you'd actually wanna be with me. And then when you did, it was like I faked you out somehow. Like I managed to convince you that this nerdy guy with a giant mouth who loves comic books and does stupid impressions was a cool, hot jock. And I had to keep it going, ya know? To keep you."

"Sam."

"And I'm always one second away from blowing it. And now," his eyes were darting, his heart racing. He was on the verge of panicking. "What would you want with me now?"

"Sam!"

He locked eyes with her. He was sure she could see the desperation flickering through them. He couldn't lose her. She was the best thing that happened to him since he got to this stupid school, and somehow, he knew she was the tie that was holding everything together. With her by his side, he could make himself better. She had that effect on people.

Quinn sighed, pressing their hands, fingers entwined, over his heart. She closed her eyes.

"Look, everything was different last year, before you got here. Yeah, you're right. At one point, I ruled that school. I was the perfect, Christian, head cheerleader with the quarterback boyfriend. Everything looked perfect, but nobody really knew that I felt things I didn't put on display. Then I got pregnant, and everything changed. Everyone judged me. I wasn't the perfect princess anymore."

"When you tried to kiss me, that time we were practicing our duet, I saw exactly what you said you were trying to be—the cool, hot jock. And I didn't need anymore of those. They let me down, helped me ruin my reputation and a year of my life. But then I saw there was something else to you."

"Don't get me wrong, you're hot," she paused. For an idiotic moment, Sam hoped the bruising covering a good part of his face would conceal the blush he felt rising in his cheeks. Judging by the small smile pulling at Quinn's lips, though, he was caught.

"You're hot, but you're also so, so sweet, Sam. I didn't want to date _that_ guy. If I just wanted a popular jock I would have stuck with Finn. I wanted to date the sweet guy who jumped to open doors for me and pull my chair out. The guy who I actually believed when he promised not to pressure me. Hot is just a bonus. And that part of you isn't changed by what those disgusting perverts did to you. You're still that sweet guy, Sam. That's the person I want to be with."

Sam felt his heart surge as she leaned close, the swell of her breasts brushing his chest through the light cotton of her dress and his hospital gown. She pressed her warm lips to his. Sam's breath caught. Fireworks. Every. Freaking. Time. He reached up to rest a hand against her face and gently run a thumb over her cheek. His fingertips swirled through the hair at the nape of her neck. When she pulled back, she remained close, the tip of her nose resting ever so slightly against his. He stared into her eyes.

He felt it coming and tried to stop it, but it was too late. That big, dopey grin spread across his face. Sam knew from experience that once it took over, it was paralytic. He couldn't talk anymore, he couldn't think anymore. All he could do was stare up at her with sparkling eyes and that giant, Cheshire Cat smile plastered to his face. He'd already embarrassed himself a few times that way with Quinn. She'd say something that really required a response, but once that smile was on his face, it took all his energy, and that's all he was capable of doing.

Her lips curved into a smile, and she placed a gentle kiss on each of his swollen eyes, then on the tip of his broken nose. Her hand brushed down his chest before she stood up fully.

"I'm gonna go home and get some rest. I'll be back to see you tonight, and I'll let everyone know you're ok."

"Quinn?"

"Mhm?"

"Please don't tell anyone about, about . . ."

"Sam I would never."

"Quinn?"

"Uh huh?"

"I love you."

"I love you too, Sam."

"You, you what?"

"Shh, Sam. Get some sleep. I'll see you when you wake up."


	16. Chapter 16

**Hey everyone, I just wanted to say thank you SO MUCH for the amazing reviews you all left for the last chapter. Many of you are very talented writers whose work I adore, and as a first-timer here, it means so much to me that you like this story. When you comment with your thoughts for future chapters, constructive criticisms, and even just with encouragement, it really inspires me to keep working on this.**

**Anyway, sorry this chapter is so long compared to the others. It's a bit of a mish-mash, trying to pull some of the storylines together. In the end, I decided to leave the identities of the FBI agents vague, so hopefully you can imagine them to be whoever you want them to be. I was persuaded by the arguments that including CM characters would make the story less believable, especially in light of my previous mention of the show (thank you reviewer who pointed that out!). Sorry it took me so long, and enjoy the new chapter!**

Chapter 16

Andy hovered around the coffee pot in the lounge of the Lima Police Department Friday morning. There wasn't much space in the small department, so when the FBI jumped at their call to come help with what they believed was an interstate child pornography ring that had ended in the murders of at least twelve teenaged boys, the lounge had been transformed into a temporary FBI headquarters. Not that anyone minded much. Like every other officer and detective in the small town department, Andy was in awe of the agents. They were the most important officials he'd ever met, and he had the privilege of watching them work on the biggest case that had ever hit this cow town.

The forensic metadata Tom had asked for came back with startling results. The footage burned onto the CD had been made less than 48 hours ago, but already it had been sent out to over 100,000 discrete locations worldwide. Andy felt sick at the thought that there were so many people who wanted to see a kid suffer. Four people? Ok. But 100,000 presumably paying customers? It made him stop to really question things. He had investigated a couple murders in his time as a detective with the LPD. But they had been drug or gang related, and while Andy firmly believed that those victims mattered as much as any other, you could understand those kinds of crimes. This, he couldn't understand.

While they were waiting for the Chief, Andy had called down to the department near Cincinnati where they had hit a DNA match. The MO was a perfect match. Seventeen-year-old kid, strong and athletic. Kidnapped and raped. Three DNA samples found on him, which matched three of the four found on their vic. They found the body a little over 24 hours after the kid went missing, soon after they started looking for him. Stabbed to death. Body showed signed of torture. The only major difference, besides the fact that their vic survived, was the CD found on him. This was clearly the same gang, so what changed that, all the sudden, they were handing over evidence against them? It didn't make sense.

Twenty minutes into the video the Chief of the Lima PD confirmed Tom's instinct that they were in over their heads and made the call to the FBI himself. Andy and the other detectives, who had begun to gather around Tom's desk, listened intently. The Chief reported the details of their case to the agent on the other end and included Andy's discovery of the identical case near Cincinnati. When he hung up, he surveyed the faces staring up at him expectantly. Almost the entire department had circled around while he was on the phone.

He explained that they sounded interested, but that they had to look into the case themselves. If it turned out to be just the two cases in Ohio, the Chief figured they'd be handling the Evans case themselves. But everyone in the room had a feeling that this case went way deeper than that. The FBI's contact agent had said they would look into it and report back within the day on whether they'd be taking the case.

They called back within the hour.

Their technical analyst had found thirteen other identical cases. All boys ranging in age from fourteen to nineteen, all raped by three or four men, all dead, found within 36 hours of disappearing. All linked by the same DNA evidence. The biggest problem was how scattered the cases were—two in Kentucky, one in Indiana, three in Illinois, two in Wisconsin, two in Michigan, one in Iowa, one in Canada, and the two in Ohio. It was impossible to connect the dots across state lines, and without the video evidence left on the most recent victim, there was no reason to suspect that each case was anything more than a standard rape case. No two cases in the same state took place in the same year.

But with the CD they stuffed in Sam Evans' shorts when they left him to die, what they were doing became crystal clear. It was safe to assume that each one of the other thirteen victims had been filmed the same way Sam had been, their videos sent out to viewers around the world. These guys were in business. And when the FBI heard that Lima had the only surviving victim and a CD full of video evidence, they put five of their agents on a plane headed for Ohio.

That was Thursday night, and by Friday morning, the lounge was packed with bustling agents and awestruck detectives. They even came with their own coffee supply.

Two of them had gone to the hospital with Tom to talk to the Evans kid, and two of them were watching the video, pausing, rewinding, printing, pointing. They had already watched all two hours of it straight through, twice. To Andy, they seemed a bit automatic, like robots. He had been forced to avert his eyes several times while the video played. One of the younger detectives ran to the bathroom puking when the poor kid kept getting punched in the stomach until he was throwing up blood. And this shit wasn't like Hollywood. They didn't cut away after they'd made their point; they didn't allude to the violence with silhouettes and fake screams. The poor kid was in so much pain, and the FBIbots kept hitting replay.

Andy sidled up behind the fifth agent, a younger man who was studying a map of the Midwest. The agent had marked with pins each of the boys' hometowns. Andy stared intently for a few minutes, trying to see if he could decipher a pattern. He came up empty.

"You see something there?" he asked the agent.

The agent's eyes were squinted at the map. He didn't turn to look at Andy when he spoke.

"Not a pattern, no," he said. "But I think we can get a pretty decent sense of where they're based out of. These hunting types of killers usually pull victims from a ring around their home base. They don't want to establish a connection in any one place that would look suspicious, so they go east, west, north, south, all in a circle around themselves. At some point, though, the distance from home becomes too great. They won't drive eight hours south to find a victim, but they'll drive four hours south, or four hours west. That's how they tend to circle themselves in. If I had to guess, I'd say we're looking at northern Indiana."

Andy nodded. What the agent was saying made sense in theory, but it still sounded like a shot in the dark to him.

The agent must have sensed Andy's hesitance. He smiled reassuringly.

"We've got a fantastic piece of evidence here—the CD with all the men's faces on it. If you hadn't come up with that, no one would have ever realized there was a connection, and we'd still have thirteen unsolved cases. It's rare in a case to have evidence like that. We know what they look like. Now it's just a matter of figuring out who and where they are. Hopefully that's something Sam can help with."

00000000000000000000

All things considered, Sam was having a pretty good day. The automatic morphine drip was keeping the pain at bay as well as keeping him mildly dazed, forcing back the flashbacks that threatened at the corners of his consciousness.

In the morning, his parents had come to visit, bringing his little brother and sister in for a few minutes before they had to get to school. The two little ones were shy at first, not used to seeing their big brother, who they thought of as Superman, in such a position of weakness. But when he joked about the stitches and scars and bruises, telling Stacy he was a monster that was going to eat her up, they both giggled and crawled into his bed to hug him close.

Stacy was as bubbly as always. She crawled onto his lap, kissed his nose, called him Frankenstein, and blushed when her mother told her that wasn't a very nice thing to call her brother.

"I didn't mean it in the bad way, Sammy!" the little girl stared at him, eyes wide.

Sam just laughed and wrapped his arms tightly around her, curling her against his chest. Even being called Sammy didn't bother him much when it came from her. His little curly-headed angel was so far removed from the terror of his experience that a pet name falling from her lips couldn't possibly take him back to that place. Even just holding her made Sam feel like he was gaining some of his strength back. She was warm and squirmy in his arms, like she had been when she was just a baby. She would always be his baby. Holding her made him feel in control again, like he was her big brother again, responsible for protecting her. Instead of feeling stupid and helpless, the victim they had forced him to be.

Sammmmmmmmy! You're squeezing me!" she whined.

"Sorry princess," he answered, kissing her on the top of her head.

She promptly bounced down from the hospital bed and wedged herself between her parents, grabbing for each of their hands. The petted her and smiled at her, giving the little diva the attention she wanted. Despite everything that had gone badly for them in the last few months, Sam couldn't help but feel that he had been blessed with the best family in the world.

"All right, guys. Time to get you to the bus so you're not late for school," his dad announced to the little ones.

"I'll be there in a minute, dad," Stevie's eyes tracked his parents as they led Stacy out of the room.

"What's up little man?" Sam asked, playfully ruffling Stevie's hair. Stevie looked awkward, staring down at his shuffling feet.

"What happened, Sam?"

Sam's eyes darkened. His younger brother never called him that. It was always Sammy. The only time his brother had ever called him Sam was when he had asked for an explanation of why their house was locked up and they were moving into a motel room. Stevie only did that when he was deadly serious. Sam smiled broadly, hoping Stevie couldn't tell how forced and fake it was.

"What do you mean, buddy? Dad told you what happened, didn't he?"

"Yeah, sorta."

"These bad guys tried to hurt me, Stevie, but I'm ok now. You're not scared are you? I'm fine now, and me and Mom and Dad, we would never ever let anybody hurt you."

"It's not that," Stevie muttered, visibly uncomfortable. Sam was genuinely at a loss for words. He had no idea what was bothering his kid brother so much.

"Stevie, you gotta tell me what's on your mind or I can't help."

"Rachel and Finn made us go to school yesterday, even though Mom and Dad were here waiting to find out about you. They said it would take our minds off stuff."

"I know you hate going to school, buddy, but you can't be mad at them just because—" Sam joked, trying to lighten his brother's mood.

"Sammy! You're not listening!" Stevie cut him off.

"Ok, buddy. I'm sorry, I'm listening."

"Well at school I heard some of the other kids talking about me, well about you really. Gill's dad's a cop and she said he said you got scraped and I didn't know what it meant but I heard it on TV once on Law and Order one time and they said it happened to a girl character on TV and I asked Dad about it and he said she didn't know what she was talking about and not to worry about it."

Sam felt the blood drain out of his face.

"But Sammy, I can't stop thinking about it. Why won't anyone tell me what happened?"

Sam closed his eyes and pulled in a deep breath. He gathered all of his strength to steady his shaking hands before reaching out to lay one on Stevie's shoulder. _"I'm not good at this,"_ Sam thought. _"I'm not smart enough for this, I'm not good at words. How am I supposed to do this?"_ But he had to, for Stevie.

"Ok, Stevie. So, you know that hitting people is bad and it hurts them right?"

Stevie nodded, staring at Sam intently.

"Well that's part of what happened, see?" Sam pointed to the bruising around his eyes and throat. "But hitting isn't the only way some people try to hurt other people.

"_God, Buddha, whoever's up there, please get me through this,"_ Sam begged silently.

"Ok, so you remember when you liked that girl, Jeanie, in your class at school, and you held her hand? You said it was really awesome and I asked you why and you said because you liked her and she liked you back."

"_What the fuck am I talking about?"_

Stevie waited, fixated as if his brother was about to tell him a really important secret.

"But then you know when someone tries to hold your hand who you don't like and it feels icky and gross? And you really only want to hold Jeanie's hand because you like her and she likes you, but someone else is trying to make you hold theirs?"

Stevie nodded. "I hate when girls do that! They're so lame!"

"I know, buddy," Sam said laughing. "They get better though. Anyway, that's kinda like what the girl at school was talking about. Sometimes people try to hurt you by taking something that's so so nice with someone you like and making you do that with someone you don't like. When they do that, sometimes it ruins things altogether so you don't even want to hold hands with the person you like anymore. Does that make sense buddy?"

"I think so," Stevie pondered. "So the bad guys made you hold hands with them? That would be gross."

"Sorta. Not exactly, but it's sorta just like that," Sam sighed. He had done enough explaining for one day.

"Look, Stevie, when you're a little bit older, all of this will make much more sense, ok? And then I promise I'll explain everything to you. Cross my heart."

"Ok Sammy," Stevie smiled, diving in to give Sam a tight hug before turning for the door.

"Oh, hey Stevie?"

He turned back, "Yeah?"

"What we just talked about, that isn't something you should talk about at school, ok?"

Stevie nodded, "Our secret!"

"And Stevie, I probably wouldn't tell Dad we talked about this either. I'm guessing he probably told you not to ask me about it?"

Stevie blushed and sprinted out of the hospital room after the rest of his family. Even going to school was better than getting in trouble with your dad.

Sam flopped back against the pillows and sighed. He knew Stevie was getting to that age where he would hear about some things and know about them, but not really understand them. He hoped he handled that ok, and when he asked Stevie not to tell their Dad about it, it was just as much for him as it was for the younger boy. He didn't really want to get in trouble with his Dad for this either.

Most of the rest of the day Sam spent watching movies. His mom had borrowed a DVD of Avatar from the public library and brought it for him. At one point, a male nurse stopped in and asked him if he wanted to try a bath. Sam squinted his eyes at him, confused.

"You're not strong enough to stand up in the shower yet. The steam will knock you flat on your ass," the nurse explained with a chuckle. "But if you wanna get cleaned up, I can help you." He held up a small bucket and a sponge by means of explanation.

"If you're not up to it, that's fine. Or if you'd rather wait for your mom or dad to help you, that's fine too. I know, I know. It's weird and embarrassing, there's no way around that. But most people find that it's less weird and embarrassing when it's a stranger instead of one of their parents."

Sam thought it over. The guy had a point. It would be nice to feel clean again, and he would absolutely die if his mom or dad tried to give him a bath. But still, what if this guy was like, ya know . . .

"I-I'm not sure," he sputtered. "You wouldn't like, I mean, you're not, you won't . . ."

"You want to know if I'm gay," the nurse stated calmly.

Sam blushed a deep red.

"It's ok," the nurse started, "Everyone's afraid to ask, but everyone wants to know. It's a male nurse thing, I guess. I am gay. But there's nothing about a half-dead, underage kid in a hospital bed that gets the juices flowing, if ya know what I mean. I do this every day, and I've seen 'em all. I think you can imagine it ain't too sexy. You've got nothing to worry about."

Sam's blush deepened, but something about the nurse's sense of humor was disarming.

"Seriously kid," the nurse said, softening and resting a hand on his shoulder. "I know what you've been through. We're all here to help you get better. No one's going to hurt you like that ever again, ok?"

Sam nodded. As it turned out, the man was very gentle with him, and it was way less scary and embarrassing than Sam had imagined. He draped Sam's hospital gown over him like a blanket and only peeled back a small corner of it at a time. When he had finished running the soapy sponge over an arm or leg and rinsing, he would put the gown back in place to cover him up. When he finished, he patted Sam's head.

"See? Not so bad right?"

Sam shook his head. Not so bad.

"Good. I'm gonna be back later and we're gonna get you out of that bed and go for a walk, ok? Maybe one lap around the pediatric ward to get started. Gotta start getting you off your ass and back on your feet!"

He was looking forward to it. Some exercise would be good, even if it was only walking a few hundred feet around the ward. And he kinda liked the nurse. The guy made him feel like he had a friend in there, someone who wasn't worrying about him constantly, and someone who didn't think he was completely helpless.

After school let out, Quinn stopped by to visit. She was in her Cheerios uniform with her hair slicked back into a ponytail. Sam had forgotten about the District Championship game that night. It felt like a year had passed since he was snapping off passes in practice, trying to impress his coach so he could quarterback this game. In reality, it was only Tuesday afternoon that he had gone missing, and now it was Friday night. He couldn't believe how his life had changed in three days.

Smiling, he took Quinn by the hips and pulled her into a seated position on the edge of his bed. She leaned down to kiss him, and he did his best to keep the grin from taking over his face.

"I missed you," he said, looking up at her, the corners of his mouth twitching and tugging into a smile.

"I was just here last night, silly,"

"Yeah but can't I keep you all the time?" He gave her his best puppy eyes. He knew he was good at it, but he wasn't sure how much of an effect they would have on Quinn. Or how they would work with black eyes, for that matter.

Quinn blushed and turned her eyes away, trying not to smile. When she turned back, Sam's smile was ear to ear. That stupid thing was mesmerizing and debilitating. Quinn knew that as soon as it happened, he was done talking, he was done thinking. She made a mental note that she was going to have to break him out of that habit sooner or later and teach him to smile without forgetting how to speak. She wondered if his face ever got tired of supporting that giant, beaming smile.

"I brought you a present," Quinn said, hopping off of the bed and rooting through her bag. She set out a bottle of strawberry shampoo and conditioner on the small table next to his bed. "It's mine so it smells pretty girly, but I thought you'd like the help, since you love it so much when I play with your hair."

She kept a straight face, but Sam could hear the wink in her voice. Every single thing she said made his heart race, and he knew she did it on purpose. She loved the reaction it produced in him.

Sam watched as Quinn ran the tap into a plastic washbasin, swirling her fingers through the water to test the temperature. When it was half full, she brought it over to the bed and set it across his knees. She lifted a finger to his face and let it gently slide down along his jaw line. His eyes stared into hers intently. They were hazel. Or green. No, definitely hazel. And stunning. Wow.

"Sam, pay attention!" Quinn laughed. "I told you to dip your head in. Here, lean forward a bit."

She laced her fingers into the short hair at the back of his head, and gently eased him forward. He let her lead him and sighed when his skin made contact with the hot water. The water stung his nose and bruises, but felt so relaxing against his scalp. After soaking for a minute, he slowly eased his face from the water, looking up at Quinn through clumps of dripping blond hair.

Quinn's breath hitched. "Um, ok, just, yeah stay right there. Keep your head over, yeah, like that."

She turned quickly to pluck the bottle of shampoo from the table but knocked it to the floor.

"Oh! Um . . ."

Sam smirked as she stooped to pick it up, but was able to wipe the smile from his lips before she turned back to him. She smiled awkwardly and reached out to brush a few strands of wet hair out of his eyes.

"Ok, ready?" Sam nodded, turning his face back down over the basin.

Quinn poured the pink gel into her palm and rubbed her hands together briefly before easing her fingertips into his hair. He closed his eyes and sighed. Her fingers pressed firmly into his scalp, massaging the foamy shampoo through his hair. They lingered at the back of his neck, kneading out a knotted muscle and brushing softly over the thick bruise. She slid them easily over his temples, pausing to rub them slowly. Sam bit down into his bottom lip to suppress the groan that was threatening to escape.

"Quinn," he sighed. "That feels amazing."

Quinn giggled as she pressed his face forward into the water, rinsing out the foam. She ran her hands through his hair under the water, transforming the basin into a cloudy strawberry pool.

She removed her hands and let him pull up while she coated her fingers with the creamy conditioner. After running her fingers once through his clean hair, she returned him to the water, then took the basin back over to the sink. When she turned back around, Sam was smirking at her.

"Sam Evans, don't you dare!" she screamed, sensing that he was about to shake like a rain-drenched golden retriever.

"Awwww, Quinn," he whined, but resisted the urge to whip his golden locks until he sent a shower of strawberry rain all over the room.

Quinn picked up a towel and stepped back over to his bed. Carefully avoiding the lines connecting him to morphine drips, IVs, and heart rate monitors, she climbed onto his lap, straddling him. Sam wrapped his arms around her waist and settled his thumbs into the back of her cheering skirt's waistband. He stared up at her, mesmerized. She was a goddess.

Draping the towel over his head, Quinn rubbed it through his hair, drying out the moisture. When she pulled the towel away, she couldn't help but laugh at his ridiculous blond bead-head. But Sam's smile was gone, and his full lips were parted, pulling in heavy breaths. Tightening his grip around her waist, he eased her slowly against his chest and pressed his lips to hers.

Quinn moaned quietly at the feel of his soft lips against hers. She breathed in, inhaling his scent. Strawberries and clean boy, delicious. His tongue brushed against her lower lip, and she parted them, allowing him to explore her. As his lips traveled from her lips to her jaw, then down to the delicate skin of her throat, Quinn readjusted herself on his lap, trying to alleviate the heat and tension building between her legs. Her cheering bloomers were beginning to feel uncomfortably moist, and she could feel Sam reacting too. She pressed down into him, eliciting a groan. His hand traveled along the length of her thigh, coming dangerously close to her skirt.

"Sam," she moaned quietly. "I-I-I need to go. I need to go. I need to go to the game."

Sam looked up at her with lust-filled eyes and a sheepish grin. "You'll come see me again tomorrow?"

"Of course I will," she replied as she carefully removed herself from his lap, trying to hide the embarrassing flush over her cheeks and collarbone.

"Can't I just keep you with me all the time?" he asked hopefully.

Quinn smiled, "I'll see you tomorrow Sam."

Sam was still in a Quinn-induced haze when the agents showed up in his hospital room to ask about the kidnapping. They expressed how sorry they were at what had happened to him and told him that they understood how difficult reliving the experience through their questioning would be, but reminded him that it was very important to the investigation that he remember everything he could. Sam just kept smiling, unthinking.

One of them laid a hand on his shoulder. "Are you ok, kid?" Sam looked up at him dreamily with a painfully big smile plastered to his face.

"It must be the morphine," one of the agents muttered to the other.

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It was a packed house at the game that night. Everyone's nerves were on edge, especially Finn Hudson's. Coach Beiste had pulled him aside in the locker room before they headed out to the field for warm ups. He sat down on a bench, looking up at her.

"Finn, I was going to start Sam at quarterback tonight."

His heart plummeted. He had felt this coming for a long time. Beiste had started Sam in the first place, and only that dislocated shoulder, which he kinda caused, saved Finn his spot. But why was she telling him this? Why now? Sam obviously couldn't play, everyone knew Finn would be starting, so what was the point of telling him?

"We need you to be at your best tonight, Finn. Not just as a player, but as a leader. I know you've seen how messed up the guys are about Sam. Well we can't play like that or we'll get crushed. I need you to get them together and get their heads in this game. This is your big shot, Finn. You've got a chance here to prove to me that you can do this. Prove to me that you can lead this team."

Finn nodded, his lips tightening. "I won't let you down coach."

Finn ran out onto the field for warm ups and gathered the team together. Pulling them into a tight huddle around them, he whispered, "Guys, I want the glee club to do a song before the game, for Sam." He looked at Karofsky and Azimio, expecting them to protest, but they just nodded. This whole thing had really shaken them.

After Rachel sang the national anthem before the sellout crowd, she handed the microphone to Finn. He was nervous. He had never seen so many people at a game that he was playing in in his life, and the lights were blinding. Rachel took his hand, giving it a gentle squeeze.

"Uh, hi everybody, I'm Finn Hudson," he started shakily. Rachel squeezed his hand again, encouraging him.

"Before we get started with the game tonight, I just wanted to say a few words about my friend, Sam Evans. Sam was supposed to be here tonight. He was supposed to be our quarterback tonight, but something really terrible happened to him and it's gonna take him a long time to get better."

The crowd was hushed. Even the opposing team and their fans had heard about the kidnapping on the news. They knew how he had been found, shot and stabbed within inches of his life. Even they had to brush away tears, for a boy they had never met, and for the idea that it could have been any one of their sons.

"Sam, I know you've only known us for a few months, but you're part of our family now, and if you're listening, we're gonna be there to help you get better, buddy. I promise, it's gonna get better."

Members of the New Directions who had been waiting on the sideline gathered around Finn and wrapped him in a giant hug. Quinn, Santana, and Brittany left their position with the Cheerios to join their friends. Behind them, the McKinley Titans football team had lowered to one knee and held hands. Across the field, the opposing team did the same.

Rachel took the microphone back from Finn. "This song is for Sam."

_You're not alone, together we stand_

_I'll be by your side, you know I'll take your hand_

_When it gets cold and it feels like the end_

_There's no place to go, you know I won't give in_

_No, I won't give in_

_Keep holding on_

_Cause you know we'll make it through, we'll make it through_

_Just stay strong_

_Cause you know I'm here for you, I'm here for you_

_There's nothing you could say, nothing you could do_

_There's no other way when it comes to the truth_

_So keep holding on_

_Cause you know we'll make it through, we'll make it through_

_So far away, I wish you were here_

_Before it's too late this could all disappear_

_Before the door's closed and it comes to an end_

_With you by my side I will fight and defend_

_I'll fight and defend, yeah yeah_

_Keep holding on_

_Cause you know we'll make it thought, we'll make it through_

_Just stay strong_

_Cause you know I'm here for you, I'm here for you_

_There's nothing you could say, nothing you could do_

_There's no other way when it comes to the truth_

_So keep holding on _

_Cause you know we'll make it through, we'll make it through_

_Hear me when I say when I say, I believe_

_Nothing's gonna change, nothing's gonna change destiny_

_Whatever's meant to be will work out perfectly_

_Yeah yeah yeah yeah_

_Keep holding on_

_Cause you know we'll make it through, we'll make it through_

_Just stay strong_

_Cause you know I'm here for you, I'm here for you_

_There's nothing you could say, nothing you could do_

_There's no other way when it comes to the truth_

_So keep holding on_

_Cause you know we'll make it through, we'll make it through_

By the time the members of New Directions had finished their song, there wasn't a dry eye in the stands. Rachel clung to Finn, her face pressed tightly to his chest, leaving little black streaks of mascara on his white jersey. Mike held Tina close, allowing her to cry into his shoulder pads.

Kurt and Mercedes stepped over to Quinn, who was trying desperately to hold back her tears. Both had red eyes. Mercedes pulled her gently into a soft embrace while Kurt rubbed her back. "It's ok, Quinnie," Mercedes murmured. "You've been so strong for everyone. You don't have to be strong anymore, not for us."

The softness of her friend's voice finally broke Quinn, and she fell into Mercedes' shoulder sobbing. "It's ok sweetheart, it's ok," Kurt whispered to her as the two friends eased her off the field with the other glee club members. "He's gonna be ok, Quinn. He will, really."

"I know he'll be ok," Quinn sniffled. "I know, I just haven't had a minute to think about all of it yet, how serious it all is. I almost lost him, Kurt," she whispered. Kurt and Mercedes just nodded and held her. There was really nothing they could say.

Back on the field, Finn rallied his teammates. All of their hearts were racing. "Ok, you guys ready to do this?" All of their eyes were on him, their adrenaline racing. "Ok, let's go!"


	17. Chapter 17

**Hey everyone, enjoy the chapter! You'll have a new one soon.**

Chapter 17

After spending a week in the hospital, Sam was finally allowed to go home and return to school. He never thought he'd see the day when he'd be so happy to walk down those halls. School was mostly a nightmare for him, a constant battle to keep from failing. He wasn't actually dumb. In classes like history, where the teacher lectured and he could just listen and remember, he was fine. Languages came very naturally to him. Some of his more progressive teachers even began evaluating his understanding of the material by asking him questions and allowing him to answer them orally. Those teachers were startled to find that Sam Evans didn't have the mental capacity of a fourth grader, as they previously suspected, but was actually quite bright. In reading and writing intensive classes like English, though, he still struggled desperately to keep afloat. But being back at school, even though he knew it would be difficult, meant that things were starting to return to normal.

Sam hoped that even just the social aspect of being back at McKinley would help set things back in order. Quinn had visited him every day in the hospital. Sometimes she would read to him, sometimes she'd take him for walks around the ward, helping him push his IV along, and sometimes they'd just talk about her day. That was the best part of his day, every day. Other members of the glee club had stopped in to visit, too. Mercedes and Kurt came to fill him in on all the gossip he'd missed at school, oblivious to the fact that he didn't really care. He was just happy to see them. Mike and Tina stopped in too, bringing him this little stuffed panda bear with funny Asian eyes that they had named Kung Fu Panda.

A few days after the big game Friday night, Finn had come for a visit, too. It was awkward at first. Sam had watched the game on his little hospital TV, and he thanked Finn for the song he and the rest of New Directions had dedicated to him. Normally he would have been embarrassed to be the center of so much attention, but it meant a lot to know that he had friends at his new school and that they cared about him.

Sam had tried to break the awkward silence by telling Finn that he had played a great game at quarterback. It was true. Finn was nearly flawless that night. The Titans ended up losing by a field goal in overtime, but Finn had done everything he possibly could to lead his team on an uphill battle. But Finn just brushed him off. Sam wasn't sure what was bothering Finn. He knew they had a bit of a rivalry going, but surely it was over now. The season was over, Finn having started almost all of it at his preferred position. And Sam had just conceded that Finn had done a great job of it. So why was he still upset?

"I wasn't sure if I should come see you," Finn started, running his thumbs over each other awkwardly. "I wasn't sure if you'd want me to."

Sam's brows furrowed. He was genuinely confused. "Why?" he asked. "Did I do something to offend you?"

"No! No," Finn rushed in to dismiss the thought. "It's just that I've been feeling really guilty lately, you know, about what happened."

Sam was still in the dark. "Something happened between us? Did we get in a fight I don't remember? I don't really have any head injuries, I don't think I have memory loss. But I guess you don't really remember if you have mem—"

"No, Sam. We didn't. I just feel really bad about not being there for you when, you know, when it happened."

"Oh."

"You asked me to go for a run with you, and I didn't. I thought you were nuts for working out after we just worked out. I mean, who does that? But I should have gone with you. That's what friends do. I just didn't know. I didn't know _that_ was going to happen."

"Finn," Sam started, laughing.

"Why are you laughing?" Finn demanded.

"Finn, I ask you to go running with me every day after practice. You _never_ go for a run with me. I _knew_ you weren't going to go, I just asked because it was kinda turning into our joke, ya know?"

Finn was silent, looking mildly offended.

"Come on, Finn. You know none of this was your fault. How could it possibly be your fault? If you would've went running with me, your ass would have passed out cold on the first mile and they would've taken both of us. You would've been in the bed next door, and I'd still be right here."

Finn grunted and a smirk cracked onto his lips. "Guess that's a good point." He scratched at the back of his head.

"Look, Sam, I just needed to say it, ya know. I just needed to tell you I'm sorry."

"Ok. Apology accepted. There. Does that work ok?"

Finn smiled, "Yeah, I guess that works ok."

From that point on, they were fine, and Sam was glad to have his friend back to normal. Finn had stayed for another half hour, talking about football and Rachel, then headed out, wishing him a speedy recovery.

Sam was happy that all his friends had come to see him, but things were starting to feel different in a way that he couldn't explain. The doctors were starting to wean him off of the morphine, and he could feel a deep, throbbing, burning pain in the wounds in his lower abdomen and back. Not to mention the other place he'd apparently needed major surgery. When his nurse friend stopped in to check on him, he would often find Sam sweating and trembling, biting hard into his lips to keep from groaning. The nurse would immediately give him a shot of morphine, but Sam was too proud to ask.

He was also starting to have a hard time sleeping at night. Each night, he laid flat on his back and tried to practice a technique the nurse had taught him about pain management. He closed his eyes and tried to consciously relax each muscle in his body, starting with his toes. By the time he got around to relaxing the muscles behind his eyes, the pain was just a dull, distant sensation that didn't control him.

Once the pain was tolerable, Sam let his thoughts drift. Quinn, Stevie, Stacy, football, Mom and Dad, Finn, Spanish homework, Mercedes, Kurt, playing the guitar, Mike and Tina, Joey and Jocelyn from back in Tennessee . . . he let his mind wander down the list, thinking through each and every thought he had in the storage room of his mind for each one. Somewhere down the line, about an hour into the list, he could drift off into a foggy unconsciousness.

Then he would feel hands on him. Strong, icy hands that gripped him so hard he felt the fingers boring into his flesh. They pressed so hard they hit bone and kept digging. He tried to pull away, but the hands multiplied. It would start with one on his arm, then cold fingers circling around his ankle, crushing it. Fingers driving through the muscle of his oblique. Fingers pressing at his throat.

Within minutes, Sam would wake up convulsing, trying to tug away from the hands tearing him apart. The first time he laid awake the rest of the night in a panic, but the more frequent the dream became, the more he came to expect it. By the third night, he learned to take a deep breath and begin his relaxation exercise again. But it was taking a toll on him. He was fidgeting and antsy during the day, circles developing under his eyes.

He would start to nod off during the day, finding the dream not so physical and terrifying when the daylight was there to protect him, but the nurse would come by and gently shake him awake.

"I know this feels safe for you, but you need to sleep at night, kiddo. We're working on normal, ok?"

Sam would just nod and try his best. No matter how little sleep he got during the day, he was still unable to fall into a deep, peaceful sleep at night.

He couldn't understand why this was happening, and he tried to shake it from his conscious mind. It wasn't really that bad. Just a little pain and some odd dreams. If he could make himself believe that nothing was really changing, then it would be true. Nothing was changing. Nothing was different. Nothing at all.

In the first few days after he woke up from surgery, everything had seemed strangely ok. He wasn't experiencing much pain, and he didn't feel much emotional pain either, aside from the initial incident with his parents calling him Sammy. He was even able to get through an hour and a half long interview with the FBI agents, during which he recounted every gruesome detail of his 36-hour ordeal, without freaking out or crying like a girl.

And his parents were so, so happy. They were both shocked and thrilled that their son, who had been through such unimaginable pain and terror, seemed to be bouncing back to normal almost immediately. After the initial moments of treating him like a paper doll whose emotions were threatening to tear through him at any moment, they began treating him almost as if nothing unusual had happened. They laughed and joked with him, discussed his upcoming return to school, and talked to him about they difficulties they were facing in their job searches. He was normal, and normal was so much better than they had expected.

Sam appreciated it, but he couldn't help but notice a cold fear building in the pit of his stomach—the fear that something was changing, and after leading everyone, including himself, to believe that he was perfectly fine, he was going to massively disappoint them.

"No," he thought. "Everything's the same. I am fine. I'm great."

So when he walked down the halls of McKinley High for the first time since the attack, Sam prayed that returning to his normal life would make those statements true.

For the most part, his first day back to school had gone fairly well. He could feel everyone's eyes on him as he walked down the halls between classes, but he knew that over time, the interest in him would fade. High school was all about the flavor of the week. Right now, that flavor was him, but give it ten minutes and some relationship scandal would steal their interest.

He made it almost all the way through the day. He was sitting in Mr. Schue's Spanish class, his last class of the day, working on verb conjugations when Miss Pillsbury slipped silently through the door and stooped to whisper something to Mr. Schue. She waited at the teacher's desk while Mr. Schue walked over to him and placed a hand on his shoulder. Trying not to make a scene, Schue lowered his voice.

"Sam, you need to go to Miss Pillsbury's office for a few minutes. I'm gonna come with you, ok?"

Sam nodded and slid out of his seat.

"Ok, guys, we'll wrap up a few minutes early today. Have a great weekend! And don't forget those conjugations due Monday!"

Sam felt a tightening in his gut as Mr. Schue slid an arm around his shoulders.

"Is something wrong? Did something happen?" he asked.

"No," Miss Pillsbury answered with a nervous smile, trying to reassure him. "Everything's ok, Sam. No reason to worry. None at all!"

He could see her trying to hold a steady smile on her face, but the corners of her lips were shaking and her doe eyes clearly displayed her nervousness. Sam kept his head down. He knew walking through the halls with two teachers was drawing even more attention to him than before. When they turned the corner into the guidance counselor's office, he saw immediately what was making her uneasy.

Tom, the detective who had come to the hospital to question him was there, along with a dark-haired woman in a suit, who he assumed was FBI. When he entered the room with Miss Pillsbury and Mr. Schue, Tom sprang from his position leaning against the bookshelves and stood in front of him. His two heavy, rough hands settled on Sam's shoulders.

"Hey son," he started. "How ya been holding up? You feelin ok? Feelin good?"

Sam nodded, averting his eyes.

"That's great. Well, I got some good news for ya and some that's gonna be a little hard to hear."

Sam looked back up from the floor, his blue-green eyes large with confusion and a hint of fear.

"We think we've got em, son. We brought in the guys we think did this to you."

Sam's entire body was cramping, starting in his stomach and spreading through every muscle with a deadening grip. His mind was foggy, and he could barely comprehend what Tom was telling him. They brought them in? What did that mean? Sometime in the last week, reality had started to slip away a bit. He could remember everything that happened; he could recall the details with precise clarity. But it was almost as if it didn't really happen to him, like it was in a movie he had seen a long time ago.

If they brought in the men, though . . . if the people who did this to him were real and sitting in a holding cell in the Lima Police Department, then their crime was real too.

"Sam," the FBI agent stepped forward, addressing him with a somber voice. "We need you to come down to the police station and identify them from a line up."

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Once Sam had given them names and a general location, the case became unnaturally easy. "Too easy to warrant the FBI's presence," Andy thought to himself. He knew that sentiment was a popular one in the department. They had the surviving victim, and they had the video evidence. Once the kid had dropped the names in their laps, the pieces were falling easily in place, and Tom and Andy were sent to obtain a search warrant for a house near Lafayette, Indiana co-owned by Tyler and John Hightower.

In the car on the way to the District Attorney's office, Andy had grumbled a little bit about how the FBI would get all the credit for bringing down this violent operation. Tom was sympathetic, but reminded him that the FBI had the power to ignore state boundaries. The two wouldn't be getting a free trip to Indiana to break this case in half an hour without the FBI.

"They also connected the dots, ya know," Tom stated, staring straight ahead at the road. "We didn't know about the thirteen other cases."

Andy nodded. Point taken.

As soon as they returned to the station with a warrant to search the house in hand, the FBI loaded up their jet, grabbed Andy, Tom, and the Chief, and set off for Indiana. Before taking off, they notified the Lafayette PD that they would be arriving in thirty minutes, and that they should have an armed squad and a forensics team ready when they landed.

The premises was almost exactly as the kid described it—wooded, secluded, with a long dirt drive. Andy got chills as they drove up the path. This is where the bastards brought them. This is where they raped fourteen boys and sold the footage to perverts around the world. He rubbed his hands together furiously, trying to dry away the clammy sweat so that he could grip his gun properly. He had never been on a case like this and didn't know what to expect. But they had shot Sam Evans, so he knew they were armed and willing to shoot.

The FBI, along with the three members of the Lima PD and back up from the Lafayette PD surrounded the house, covering all possible escape routes. Two agents tip-toed up the stairs, glanced at each other, then kicked the front door in. Inside, all was quiet.

"I knew you'd come."

The sudden sound of a human voice had every gun in the room spinning towards it. Sitting in a chair by the window, just inside the door was a tall, thin man with stringy hair and a stubbly chin. He sat calmly, long fingers extended out over the arms of the chair. He didn't look at the agents, but just stared out through the window. The sunlight illuminated his hazel eyes. He appeared unnaturally calm, considering how many guns were pointed at his face by agents trained to kill. He seemed high.

"Who are you?" an agent demanded.

"I'm Jared," he stated calmly, with an upbeat inflection in his voice as if he was meeting a new friend. "I brought you here. I left the CD for you with Sammy."

His breath hitched on those last words.

"My poor Sammy," he mumbled, staring out the window.

"He survived." Andy blurted. He couldn't help himself.

The man's eyes snapped up to them, suddenly full of hope and excitement. "My Sammy?"

"Where are the others?" the agent cut in, demanding the man's attention.

Jared sighed, "Downstairs, in the basement. They don't know what I did."

Tom stepped forward and pulled Jared roughly to his feet, slamming him into the wall and pulling his hands behind his back. He latched the cuffs around his wrists tightly, cutting into the skin. Tom pressed his mouth close to Jared's ear.

"You're going to burn in hell," he whispered gruffly as the others stormed down the stairs to the basement.

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"Number four. That's Don."

"You're sure?"

"I'm sure."

"Number four, please step forward."

"Next line up please!"

A second set of men in street clothes shuffled into the room, holding up placards.

"Number six. That's Johnny."

"You're sure?"

"I'm sure."

"Number six, please step forward."

"Next line up please!"

Sam drew in a sharp breath. His chest was tightening, aching.

"Number three," he whispered, gripping the back of a chair tightly to steady himself. "That's Jared."

"You're sure?"

"I'm sure."

"Number three, please step forward."

Jared hadn't shaved in days, his straggly hair looked stringy, and his eyes were hollow. To Sam, he looked weak and broken. His eyes stared vacantly through the glass, and Sam felt like they were boring into his soul.

"Don't worry. They can't see you, you know," the dark-haired FBI agent turned to him.

"I know," he replied, barely audible.

"Next line up please!"

The men shuffled into the room, all wearing plaid button-down shirts hanging loose over white undershirts. They all had brown hair cropped close in a buzz cut. But only one of them had the smirk in his eyes that was burned into Sam's memory. The smirking eyes that leered down at him while the man behind them forced him to do unspeakable things. That was the smirk he wore every time he was in a position of power—when he had a gun to Sam's head, when he had Sam hung over a couch, running fingertips lightly over his exposed body. Sam felt dizzy; he was having a difficult time getting enough air into his lungs, and apparently he was gasping hard enough that the FBI agent could hear him.

"It's almost over, Sam. This is the last one," she said reassuringly before turning her eyes back to her notebook.

Sam looked back to Tom, who was sitting at the interview table in the back of the room. Tom nodded.

"Go ahead, son. Be a good boy, be strong."

Sam closed his eyes and breathed, then opened them holding his gaze steadily over Tyler.

"Number five. Number five is Tyler."

"Are you sure, Sam?"

"I'm sure."

"Number five, please step forward."

Tyler's lips curled into a snarl. Without warning, he launched himself against the glass, his face pressed up against it.

"You fucking blond slut! You wanna get fucked up again? You're dead!" he roared, spittle flying from his lips and spraying the glass surface. Before the officers could pull him back, he slammed a fist down against the glass, sending reverberations through the interview room.

Sam stumbled backwards, eyes wide, hands grasping for something to hold onto. He felt like one of the newborn colts he had helped deliver back in Tennessee, unable to control his legs. He crashed into a wooden chair, sending it flying across the room. Unable to keep himself upright, he buckled to the floor. He pulled his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms tightly around them, pressing his face between his knees. Within seconds, Tom was on his knees beside him, his arms wound tightly around the trembling boy.

"Hey. Hey!" Tom tried to grab his attention, and eventually the blond head peeked up, large green eyes looking at him with fear. "We got him now, ok? You did great. He knows we got his balls in a bag. He's goin away forever, ok?"

Sam nodded quietly, and the FBI agent stepped over to help him to his feet.

"I'm sorry we had to put you through this, Sam," she apologized gently. "Even though we have their faces on the video, we really needed you to identify them anyway."

Tom hissed.

Sam's eyes squinted in confusion. "Video?"

The agent's eyes shot to Tom's. "No one's told him about it yet," Tom explained, the disdain in his voice clear. He set the chair upright. "Sam, sit down," he commanded.

Sam obeyed, looking up at Tom expectantly.

"Son, you know they taped everything that happened, right?"

He nodded. He would never forget the glare of that camera staring in his face.

"Well, we have it. We have the edited copy that they sent out to their customers. They left it in your gym shorts when they stabbed you on the roadside."

Sam felt like he was going to break. He imagined his brittle body shattering into a million little pieces, then someone trying to sweep them all up into a dustpan and throw them away. They had all seen it. Tom had seen it, this FBI woman had seen it, probably every single person in the Lima Police Department had seen it. He was already a little bit shy about his body; that's why he kept such a strict diet and worked out so hard to keep it in great shape. He talked a good game, but deep down he was critical of himself every time he looked in the mirror.

He never imagined that so many people he had never met, people he would have to see again, would see him naked, let alone see him at the most vulnerable he had ever been in his life. He felt the shame washing up over him, threatening to drown him. Could this thing be all over the Internet? Would all his friends see it? All the people at school? He'd never be able to live it down. He would have to get out of this stupid town, or everyone would forever know him as the guy who . . . who . . . Sam couldn't even put words to it. His cheeks burned and he felt tears forming. Elbows resting on the table, he let his face collapse into his hands.

"M-my mom and dad?" he managed to spit out. It wasn't even a question, but he hoped they understood.

"No," Tom answered firmly. "They know it exists. They know we have it. But they haven't seen it. Your dad was quite adamant that he wanted to see it so he could understand what you went through, but we convinced him that you wouldn't want him to see you like that."

"What about . . . what about everyone else."

The FBI agent interjected. "Sam, that tape is not going to get leaked out. I can swear that to you. Your attackers were very concerned with protecting it so that whoever they sent it to had to pay them for it. Now that we have them, we're shutting the whole thing down. It will never see the light of day, I promise."

Sam sighed and knotted his fingers into his hair. This wasn't happening.

Later that night, after his dad picked him up from the police station, Sam was spending his first night at home with his family. Even if home was just a motel room, he was happy to be there instead of in the hospital, and his family was happy to have him back, too. His mother prepared over the hot plate the best dinner they could afford—rice mixed with some kidney beans—in celebration.

Just before bed, Stacy sat on Sam's lap on the floor and read him one of her favorite stories. She was in the third grade and working on improving her reading, and Sam was following along. Reading at her grade-level wasn't really a problem for him. Even if the letters danced, the words were small enough that he could guess what they were supposed to be. He pressed his nose into her hair and inhaled her scent; she smelled like home.

When she was finished, he gave her a hug and a quick kiss on the top of her head, then picked her up and tucked her into bed with Stevie. The two little ones occupied the middle of the bed so that when their parents got in or out, it wouldn't disturb them. Sam returned to the floor and crawled into his sleeping bag. He curled his arm under his head to use as a pillow; it really didn't bother him much. Just as he had done the last number of nights in the hospital, he practiced his muscle relaxation technique and his drifting thoughts ritual, and eventually he was able to swim away into an ocean of deep sleep.

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It was 3:00 in the morning, and Dwight awoke to the sound of whimpering.

"Please. Please. No. Please."

He sat up in bed and rubbed his eyes. To his left, his two young children and their mother were sleeping peacefully. As his eyes adjusted and let in the dim light from the streetlamp outside, he spotted the source of the soft cries. On the floor, his sleeping bag twisted and tangled in limbs, his oldest son was throwing himself back and forth with an almost violence force.

Dwight jumped out of bed and hurried to kneel at Sam's side.

"Sam," Dwight whispered to his son, trying not to wake up the rest of his family. "Sam."

But Sam was unresponsive to his voice. He curled himself into a protective ball, arms guarding his face, and continued to rock and whimper. Dwight laid a hand on his side, trying to soothe him. He was soaked in sweat, but his skin was freezing to the touch and trembling. "Jesus help me," Dwight thought with a sigh.

"Sam, Sam, Sam. Please calm down. You're just dreaming," he whispered, rubbing his hand along the length of his son's side. "It's just a dream."

Sam's eyes shot open with a start and fixed on the strong figure looming over him. And before Dwight could stop him, Sam was screaming loud enough to wake the entire motel.


	18. Chapter 18

**Hope you like this chapter, sorry it was such a long time coming. There will be a few chapters of introspective stuff like this one, then some action to come soon!**

Chapter 18

Dwight Evans sat in the small waiting room of Dr. Allen Iveres' office. He was exhausted, and the plush furniture and soft lighting was making him nod off. Figuring it might be the only chance he would get for a while, he allowed himself the luxury of closing his eyes and relaxing. It had been three weeks since Sam came home from the hospital, and every single night, he woke up screaming in terror at least once. And his family was definitely worse for the wear.

Stacy's teacher was sending her to the nurse's office two or three times a week for naps because the little girl was falling asleep in class. When the teacher finally called home, Dwight was forced to explain their difficult predicament to her. The teacher was sympathetic. She had read about Sam in the papers and thought there might be a connection, "But Evans is such a common name, I didn't want to assume," she explained. Dwight promised her that they were trying to figure out a solution that would work for all their children, and that he hoped that Stacy would be back to normal soon.

Even worse, Stevie looked like he was shell-shocked. Every time Sam would wake up screaming, Stevie would shoot up in bed and stare at his brother with huge eyes as if Sam was at the center of a horror film being replayed every night. Stevie was just old enough to understand that something was seriously wrong with his brother.

"Is he hurt, Daddy?" Stevie asked in a shaking voice when Sam's night terrors first started. "Is he dying?"

"He's not dying, Stevie," Dwight reassured him. "He's just hurt on the inside. He's very scared."

"But it's over isn't it?" Stevie retorted, confused.

Dwight just nodded, knowing how far it really was from over.

Stevie was scared and confused by his brother's transformation, and in his child's mind, the only way to cope with these new feelings was to avoid Sam. As much as he could in the tiny motel room, he would hide from Sam, avert his eyes when Sam looked at him, and give obligatory one word answers when he spoke to him. He loved his brother deeply, but this _thing_ shaking and screaming in the night was not the brother he grew up idolizing. Sam would try to ask Stevie about his feelings, but the little boy would just find some excuse to ignore him. One time, Stevie had just pulled the comforter over his head. Sam looked for all the world as if he was going to burst into tears.

Even Dwight and Mary were struggling to survive their new living situation. They never for a second stopped thanking God that their oldest child had survived and was back with them, but they would be lying if they said having him home in this state wasn't a challenge. Neither one of them could steal more than five or six hours of sleep a night, and that was on a good day. If Sam woke up screaming more than once, between calming him down and coaxing their other two back to sleep, they lost most of the night.

Their days job hunting were long and frustrating, and it was a struggle to stay motivated. Dwight pushed himself by reasoning that even if they could afford a small apartment, even one with just two rooms, he and his wife could sleep with Sam safely wrapped in their arms, and the two little ones could sleep in the other room where his screams wouldn't wake them. Confident that this would help alleviate their current predicament, Dwight pushed himself past the fatigue, forcing a smile on his face each time he asked if a business was hiring, even though his eyes were tired.

Sam's guilt over the changes taking over his family was apparent in his tortured eyes. Dwight could tell that Sam knew how difficult he was making things for the people he loved most. And in his efforts to relieve the pressure on them, he was making things increasingly worse for himself. At first, they thought that maybe if he felt more comfortable and safe the nightmares would stop, so Dwight sacrificed his spot in the bed and took over the sleeping bag on the floor. But Sam had still woken up screaming, this time clutching Stacy in a tight embrace and sending the little girl into her own fits of panic and terror. It was almost as if his muscles locked up in fear, and he couldn't physically let her go until his choking sobs had subsided.

Sam had been so guilt wracked by that episode that, for the next few nights, he had quietly slipped outside with his sleeping bag and tried to curl himself up and sleep on the porch. On the third night, Dwight had heard the door click and padded out of bed to see what Sam was up to. Outside, he found him huddled tightly in the sleeping bag, shaking hard with chapped, trembling lips.

"Sam," he had whispered, crouching down next to the balled up form, "It's too cold for this. Come back inside."

"I'll wake everyone up."

"It's ok, buddy. We'll manage. We'll figure something out, I promise," Dwight said with a sigh. Of course Sam was right. But he didn't know what to do. His promise sounded lame and hollow even to his own ears.

Dwight had almost been forced to physically drag Sam back into the motel room. He wondered if the men who did this to Sam knew how they were ruining his life. And his family. Dwight had seen them at the arraignment; they looked for the most part like four normal guys. But he knew they were monsters. Not just by the battered and broken state they had left Sam in, but by the terror Dwight saw in his eyes every time he woke up from a nightmare. Trying to imagine what Sam must have felt like, how scared he must have been, made him sick every time. He would have traded places with Sam in a heartbeat if he could, no matter how terrible it was. If it would just prevent that look in Sam's eyes, he would do it.

After the failure of his outdoor experiment, Sam went on a campaign to prevent himself from sleeping at all. For the first few hours after Mary and the children fell asleep, Sam would lay on his spot on the floor doing sit ups and pushups until he was sweating and wincing. Dwight would watch him wearily, reminding him every so often not to hurt himself. Eventually, Dwight would drift off to sleep, but he'd sometimes wake up to find Sam drinking coffee, trying to read, or just sitting there staring wide-eyed at the wall, pinching himself harshly.

If they made it through the night without being woken up by violent screams, Dwight knew Sam had managed to keep himself awake all night. On those mornings, Sam was like a zombie. His eyes never moved from their fixation on the wall when his mother kissed his cheek and ran a hand through his hair. Eventually, his eyes would slowly turn to meet hers, but when they did there was nothing there. Dwight didn't have the heart to tell her what Sam was doing. She was so cheerful in the mornings after a night when he didn't scream that she would kiss him and pet him and tell him he was doing such a good job. Sam would force a smile to his lips, and Dwight couldn't break it to her.

He knew he had to do something or they'd all go insane. He just didn't know what he could do. The best thing for Sam would probably be therapy, but without any insurance, there was no way they could even consider it as an option. Desperate, Dwight called Dr. Roslin Polusky, the therapist who met with them at the hospital when they were first allowed to visit Sam. She was sympathetic but unable to see Sam regularly herself as she was spending most of her time out of state researching. She assured Dwight that she would make a few calls.

When she called back, she reported that she was able to set up an appointment for Sam with a friend and colleague. Dr. Iveres had agreed to evaluate Sam for free as a favor to his friend, and Dr. Polusky thought it was a good idea to at least meet with him, even if they couldn't afford ongoing therapy. So on a Wednesday afternoon, after a long day of fruitless job hunting, Dwight found himself in the cozy office, napping as he waited for his son.

After about an hour, the door opened and Sam emerged just ahead of Dr. Iveres, who rested a hand on his shoulder. The tall Hispanic man wore a smile that was both sympathetic and reassuring. Dwight rose to receive his son from the doctor, his hands reaching out to hold Sam by the upper arms.

"You ok kiddo?" Sam just looked at him with those hollow, exhausted, robotic eyes.

"Mr. Evans, if you don't mind, I'd like to speak with you alone for a few minutes?" the doctor asked from his position leaning against his doorframe.

Dwight nodded and allowed the doctor to usher him into his office. When Dwight sat down in the overstuffed armchair, it felt like he was collapsing.

"Mr. Evans, as you know, Sam's been through a lot," Dr. Iveres started. "He couldn't really tell me much about what actually happened, but he was very concerned about his night terrors and sleeping issues. He's got a great deal of guilt about keeping you all awake at night. I have to say, Sam is showing many of the classic signs of post traumatic stress disorder, which wouldn't be surprising given the circumstances."

Dwight was stunned to hear those words. He knew Sam was rapidly deteriorating, but the weight of an actual diagnosis made it feel so real, and so serious.

"What can we do for him?"

"Well, that's a tough question to answer," Dr. Iveres started, as if he was leading Dwight through a pre-prepared conversation. "These things can be extremely difficult when you don't have insurance or a steady means of income."

"You have no idea," Dwight thought with a hint of scorn, lips pursed.

"Therapy can be extremely expensive. Without insurance, it often costs around $250 an hour, and unfortunately, I believe that Sam would need a lot of it. It could take months, even years of weekly therapy to recover from the kind of trauma he's been through."

Dwight sighed. This wasn't helping.

"There is another option, though, that would fit better into your budget."

"I'm listening, Doctor."

"Well, we could medicate him."

Dwight winced, his eyes narrowing.

"Medication is much less expensive than therapy, and it could be very effective in alleviating his night terrors. I would prescribe him a medication that we typically use to combat hallucinations, and it would almost certainly make him sleep quietly at night. However, by its nature, this medication has a heavy sedative component, and the trade off for sleeping quietly at night is very likely to be changes in his personality during the day."

"Every individual responds differently, but often people notice feelings of emotional numbness and vacancy. For some, the calmness can be a good thing, but it's important to remember that that's not ultimately dealing with the underlying issues. When we lift the veil of the medication, all of the issues come right back to haunt him again. I usually recommend a combination of medication and therapy, but with your situation, at least the medication would put him in a state that would allow the rest of you to sleep at night."

Dwight stood to shake the doctor's hand and thank him for his generosity with his time. Though he was able to put a smile on his face, Dwight felt as is he was on the brink of crying for the first time since he thought Sam was dying. So basically, his choice was to forcibly turn Sam into a hollow zombie so that the rest of his family could sleep, or to continue on, allowing Sam's terror to destroy himself and everyone around him. What kind of choice was that for a father to make? He felt like he was being asked to sacrifice one child for the sake of two others. Even if it made logical sense, he loved Sam so much, loved him the way he was, and wasn't sure if he could make that call.

"Talk it over with your wife and son, and let me know what you all decide," Dr. Iveres said in parting.

"I will, doctor. Thank you," Dwight answered, his mind drifting to a distant place.

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Sam sat quietly next to Quinn in the cafeteria, staring out the window and poking a finger idly at half a peanut butter sandwich.

"You need to eat more than that, Sam," Quinn commented. "You're a big guy, and especially if you're going to get healthy again, you've got to eat more than that."

Sam dazedly looked down at the half sandwich. It wasn't much, but it would get him through the day. They needed to make sure that Stevie and Stacy were eating properly, and when necessary, the three older members of their household made the sacrifices to ensure that. It didn't bother him much; he was strong enough to handle it. He wasn't even hungry. He would have to force down the slice of bread and thin layer of peanut butter. Before his dad lost his job, he would have just tossed it and skipped lunch, but now he had to eat when he had the chance in case the opportunity didn't arise again. His eyes drifted back to the window, not realizing that he hadn't really answered Quinn.

"Sam," she murmured after a minute. "Sam, what's wrong? You're really out of it today."

He looked back to her slowly, trying to focus on her face. "She's so pretty," he thought absentmindedly. "Has she always been this pretty?"

"I-I'm ok, really. I'm just tired. I told you I'm having a hard time sleeping."

"From the nightmares?" Quinn asked, concerned.

Sam nodded, never looking at her. Quinn reached out and took his hand, gripping it firmly.

"Please look at me," she asked sternly. He tried to make steady eye contact with her, but his eyes were vacant. "Something's wrong. Something else is bothering you. Don't try to hide it from me, I can tell. Please tell me what it is."

He wasn't sure how long the silence lasted after she stopped speaking. Time was relative to him now.

"I'm ruining everything," he pronounced calmly.

Quinn felt her heart wrenching, her eyes filling with tears that she would not allow to spill over. He was such a beautiful person. What she had loved so much about him was how pure he was. When she first met him, he was so innocent and goofy. His dorky sci-fi references and ridiculous impressions and lack of game—they all made him the boy she loved. Different than Finn, different than Puck, different than all of them. She loved the way his feet flipped when she got him worked up, and she loved they way he looked at her like she was the only person in the world. Now all of that was gone.

He was still beautiful on the outside. His face was completely healed, and only a shadow of a bruise still showed on his throat. Strands of his hair brushed across his gorgeous eyes in the way that always stole her breath away. His permanently pouty lips made her think of all the naughty things she wanted to do to them. But it was all hollow. She wanted her doofus boyfriend back, not this shell of a person. No matter how physically attractive he was, it would never be enough to make up for what he was missing inside. It wasn't fair.

"How are you ruining things Sam?"

"I'm keeping my whole family up at night. I wake up screaming every night. My sister's falling asleep in school, my brother is terrified of me, and my parents are going insane."

Quinn held his hand tightly, rubbing gentle circles into his palm with her thumb.

"You'll get better soon," she tried to reassure him. "Or at least lose your voice soon from screaming so much."

Sam's lips curled up into a small smile, but his eyes were shattered. After a moment, he looked away.

"My parents are fighting. About me," he stated, barely above a whisper. "They want to put me on medication so that I'll be quiet."

He had been in the shower last night when he heard raised, muffled voices coming from the bedroom. "Strange," he thought, pressing his eyes closed and turning his face back into the hot water. His parents never argued. Even when his dad lost his job and the bank took their house, they hadn't fought, they just held each other tightly and discussed. Sam turned off the water and ran a towel through his hair before slinging it low around his waist. He ran his fingers down his abs and over the stitched surgical wound. It was healing nicely, but it still felt numb and awkward to touch.

As he stepped out of the shower, he could hear them clearly and paused to listen.

"We can't do that to him, Mary. I refuse to! If we put him on that medication we'll never see him again. Think about that. You will never see that boy you raised. Ever. Again. And how do you think Sam's going to feel about it? It's like telling him we don't actually care if he gets better, as long as he shuts up! No, I'm not doing it. He's been through too much pain for his own family to hurt him too."

"Damn it, Dwight!" his mom yelled back. "Don't you dare act like I don't love my own son! We're not abandoning him, but we've got two other children to think of. Soon I'll have three children I don't recognize. And for that matter, a husband I don't recognize too! And don't you think he wishes he didn't have to feel so much pain all the time? Maybe it will be good for him."

"I don't care, Mary, we need to actually help him, not treat him like a burden!"

"Well maybe it is, Dwight. It is a burden. This is all a burden! We need to handle it the best way we can."

"You're unbelievable! This is your child you're talking about! You—"

"Dad," Sam whispered from the doorway. "Mom."

They turned to stare at him. They were inches apart, in each other's faces. He had never seen them like that before.

"Sam, sweetheart, we didn't mean . . ." his mom started, coming towards him with arms outstretched.

"No, mom, it's ok. I'll do it. I-I'll take the medication. I can get more hours at the pizza place so I can pay for it myself. I just want to make it better for all of us."

His dad sat on the edge of the bed, arms folded across his chest. His eyes were burning and he refused to say a word. For the rest of the night, no one spoke. Sam tucked Stevie and Stacy into bed and kissed them goodnight, then settled silently into his nightly workout routine. When his parents finally went to sleep, they each turned outwards, staring at the walls.

Sam felt a gentle squeeze on his hand and noticed that Quinn's large, hazel eyes were filled with concern and staring straight into him.

"I'm a burden to them, Quinn. I've been trying so hard not to fall asleep at night so they can sleep. I'm too much to handle."

He paused, eyes seeking out his shoes. He pulled awkwardly at his shirt sleeves and bit at his lips.

"I-I just wanna crawl into a hole somewhere, ya know?"

"Sam?"

His eyes met hers.

"I want you to come stay with me."


	19. Chapter 19

Sorry this chapter took me absolutely forever to produce. Just coming back from abroad, and now that I'm settled in, I promise I'll be updating more regularly.

Chapter 19

"Mr. Evans, think about it," Quinn stated, firmly arguing her case. "We have five bedrooms. He can scream his lungs out all night long if he needs to. He won't bother anyone."

Dwight's eyes narrowed at her, unconvinced. Quinn didn't miss a step.

"Look, Mr. Evans, Sam's pretty much refusing to sleep here. Right?"

He remained silent, arms folded across his chest and eyes squinted. But he didn't stop her.

"So he's wrecked because he's forcing himself to go days without sleeping, and none of you can sleep anyway because the second he dozes off he's up screaming. If he sleeps at my house, he can have his own space. He'll let himself fall asleep because he knows he won't be disturbing anyone, and my mom and I will be fine because the bedrooms are far apart. He could be on a totally different side of the house."

Dwight leaned against the wall, running a hand through his graying blond hair. When Sam came home with Quinn, he could immediately see in his son's eyes that he was up to something. In fact, he looked downright guilty. He busied himself with unnecessary tasks like rearranging a small box of Stevie and Stacy's toys, clearly attempting to avoid attention.

Quinn, on the other hand, would probably make a fine lawyer someday. Or a poker champion. From the moment she stepped inside the door, the dingy motel room was her courtroom. She planted herself with authority on a box they usually used for seating, her face blank yet confident. Unlike most kids her age, she didn't stumble around her words, looking around for the best place to start. She cut directly to the point. Dwight could tell she respected him; but she wasn't afraid of him.

When Quinn came right out and asked permission for Sam to come live with her, Dwight asked Sam to take Stevie and Stacy out to the park. Sam had nearly tripped himself in his hurry to get out of the room, apparently wanting no part of this conversation. Dwight added a brief comment about not wanting the two young ones to hear, but really, he wanted to be able to speak frankly with Quinn about Sam.

Dwight stood up straight, arms still folded across his chest. He was an imposing man—6'3, built strong like Sam, and still in great shape for his age. His eyes were hard. When he was stern with any one of his children, he ignited the fear of God in them, despite the fact that they knew he would never hit them. So when he stepped closer to the girl seated in front of him, he wasn't surprised to see a moment of fear and doubt flash through her eyes before she regained her composure.

"Quinn, I appreciate your concern. You've done so much for our family since Sam's . . . accident, and you've been a very good friend to him. But I don't think this is a good idea."

"Why?" Quinn asked, remaining calmly perched on her box chair.

Dwight sighed. Of course she would push this.

"Look, Quinn, it's not that I don't trust you, or Sam for that matter, but you're both teenagers. There are things you're just not old enough for yet, and one of those things is living together. It would be irresponsible of me, as a parent, to let my fifteen-year-old son live with his girlfriend. You kids do whatever it is that you do, and I can't prevent it, but I'm not going to facilitate it either."

"This is about my pregnancy, isn't it," she stated glumly.

"In a sense, yes. But it's not about you specifically or the fact that you had a baby. I would have the same answer for you if hadn't been pregnant. You're just too young to make these kinds of decisions for yourselves. Both of you."

"Ya know, Mr. Evans, Sam has been nothing but a gentleman to me since we first met. He's the only boy who's never tried to pressure me to do anything I didn't want to do. He even gave me this ring and promised he'd be true to me. When I, well, the reason I ended up pregnant last year was because I was really insecure about myself. I really didn't like myself very much. But Sam makes me feel so special. He makes me feel like I deserve better."

"That's great, Quinn, and I'm so glad to hear that he treats you with respect, but he's still a teenage boy and—"

"Mr. Evans, please just wait. I know you're trying to do right by Sam—and me—but what's more important? Making sure we don't do something irresponsible because you don't trust us? Or helping Sam get better? We wouldn't even be talking about this in the first place if nothing had happened and Sam was completely fine. But he's not fine, and he's not going to be fine if nothing changes. And neither are any of you. Not Stacy, not Stevie, not you or Mrs. Evans. And after what he just went through, I'm pretty sure what you're worried about is the last thing on his mind."

Dwight sighed. He wished that she didn't have a point.

"This maybe our only chance at not having to put him on medication."

Dwight scratched his head, blinking a few times. He was exhausted. Every night he spent either holding Sam until he came down from the terror of his nightmares or watching warily from a fitful, shallow sleep as Sam tried to force himself awake. During the day, he observed all three of his children growing sicker. Their nerves were overwrought; even the slightest sudden movement would throw Stevie and Stacy into fits of panic and tears. It was beginning to feel like medication was their only option. But how could he do that to Sam? It was an abandonment.

Not for the first time, Dwight felt like a complete failure as a father. If he had his old job, or any decent job for that matter, they would still have insurance and could afford to put Sam in therapy. But it always seemed like life would throw one test after another. No family would be able to cope with this, let alone a family in their dire situation. If he could afford to feed two of his three children, it was a good day. How was he supposed to help Sam recover if he couldn't even tell him not to skip meals? Now he was practically admitting defeat and giving his child away for someone more capable to raise him.

"One week."

Quinn perked up. She had been sitting silently, examining the stitching in the hem of her dress while Dwight was thinking.

"We'll try this for one week, and then we'll see how things go. But he comes here after school. He eats dinner with us. He stays with us except to sleep. And I'd like to speak with your mother."

"Of course," Quinn said, her smile brightening by the second.

"Quinn? This isn't a party. I know you're trying to help, but this isn't an excuse for the two of you to ignore my rules or the rules your mother sets for you."

"I know, Mr. Evans. I know."

Just then, the door opened and two little blond heads struggled through then collapsed on the bed. Sam followed through soon after, eyes trained to the floor sheepishly. When he looked up, his dad had a stern tension in his mouth and a hardness in his eyes. But Quinn was smiling.

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It was 2:30 in the morning when Quinn heard the faint sounds of screams coming from within the house. She bolted up and sprinted down the stairs towards the small bedroom in their finished basement where her mother had allowed Sam to move in. When she threw open the door, she found Sam clutching desperately to a pillow, his legs tangled in a sheet, trying in vain to kick away an imagined attacker. His eyes were clenched shut, and he was biting harshly into his lower lip, screaming through it.

Without a thought for her own safety, Quinn pulled back the comforter and leapt into the bed beside him. She grabbed him firmly by the wrists as he tried to shove her away in his sleep and latched her legs around his. He was strong, and his lashings almost threw her more than once, but she was determined. She pressed her lips to his forehead and prayed for the convulsions to subside. With the feel of her lips on his skin, his screams turned to whimpers.

"Please don't do this. Please not again. I don't want to. Please."

"Shhh, Sam, it's me, Quinn. No one's hurting you. You're safe in bed with me."

Slowly, Sam's eyes blinked open. He let out a choked sob as his eyes connected with hers, and she held him tightly as his entire body shook. She shushed him and brushed strands of sweat-soaked hair away from his forehead, pressing gentle kisses to his cheeks.

"Q-Quinn?" he whispered, the fear and confusion apparent in his eyes. She answered by sliding her fingers up behind his ears and placing soft kisses over his face.

As the tension in his chest began to unlock, she could feel him gasping for breath. Eventually, his breathing evened out, and his arms wrapped around her, pulling her body to gently rest against his. She pressed her cheek to his chest, feeling it swell and fall easily with each breath. Her bare leg brushed up over his, her knee resting over his thigh. The arm she had extended across his torso traced along the length of his side. She had such a hard time believing that this body, so strong in the way it enveloped her small frame, belonged with the scared, wounded animal eyes staring into hers.

Quinn closed the final inches between them and touched her lips to his. More than wanting to spark any kind of sexual connection, she just wanted to feel close to him. She enjoyed the feel of his lips, how full and soft they were, how warm. She held him steady until she felt the tremble slip away from him. When her lips parted ever so slightly, neither one of them made a move to deepen the kiss. She simply enjoyed the feeling of his breath, warm against her. She opened her eyes and smiled against his lips when she found his open too. A gentle blush rose in his cheeks.

"Can you tell me about it Sam? About the dream?"

"I, I don't know."

"It's ok," she stared intently into his eyes. She never noticed before, but she couldn't really tell what color his eyes were. Maybe blue with green streaked through them? "Just give it a try."

"They, they're all holding me down. I can't get their faces out of my mind. They look at me like I'm, I don't know, like I'm not human."

She felt him start to tense and moved herself in closer to him, nestling against his chest. His strong arms wrapped firmly around her, and his face nuzzled into the crook of her neck. Quinn pressed her nose and lips into his hair. She didn't want to think about whatever violent images were going through his head. It was too much. She was trying so hard to make him better, but it was so much to cope with. "I'm not trained for this. How do I figure out how to make him better?" she thought. She had been so confident when she convinced Mr. Evans to let Sam stay with her, but now she felt the burden of his recovery shift to her. She was scared, but she would keep trying.

"Just hold me, Sam. And when you start to think about them hurting you, remember, I'm here in your arms."

With Quinn pressed tightly to his side, Sam fell into the first deep sleep he'd experienced in weeks.


	20. Chapter 20

**Hey everyone, thanks for the great reviews and the constructive criticism on the last chapter. Before we get started on this one, just a little roadmap on where we're going. Some of you asked me if, based on the last chapter, the drama would be winding down. We're in a little bit of a lull as I try to build up the next major plot element, but there are definitely some things to look forward to coming up. We've got a developing Sam/Kurt friendship, some very intense Sam/Quinn romance (which will get us back to that M rating), and the trial (with a few little twists) will bring some serious drama for a number of chapters. In one upcoming chapter in particular, I'm going for 9/10 readers in tears. So I know things are a bit slow right now, but hopefully you'll keep reading on, because it's coming!**

Chapter 20

"Kurt, I was thinking since Sam and Quinn won't be taking the lead duet for sectionals anymore, maybe you'd like to partner up with Rachel? I've got this great song in mind and the male part is better suited to your voice than Finn's, and I know you've been dying for a solo—"

"Kurt?"

"Kurt!"

Snickers filled the choir room as Mr. Schue came around from behind the piano. All eyes in the room turned to stare at the blushing boy, including those belonging to his beautiful distraction. Kurt had been staring into his back from his seat in the upper row ever since he sat down about fifteen minutes ago. He traced with his eyes the way the broad shoulders tapered down to a narrow waist and hips. The worn fabric of his shirt hung loosely against the long, taut muscles of his back and shoulders, and Kurt could make out every hard swell. At the base of his spine, his jeans gapped ever so slightly, pulling tense against his belt. Just a hint of the waistband of his boxers peeked out; beyond that, a quarter inch of peachy, velvet skin.

Kurt desperately wished to reach out and run the pad of his finger over that tiny patch of skin. He wanted to see if it was as soft as it looked, if it was as smooth as his own. He wondered what it would feel like to run his hands down along those lean muscles of his back, fingertips brushing along his spine as he stared up into his eyes. He wondered if his breath would catch when his fingers reached the rough leather of his belt. Would he have the courage to slip his hands around, following the line of that belt, until he reached the buckle?

From the first day Sam showed up with Mr. Schue in the choir room, Kurt was in a constant state of teenage longing. With his blond hair, muscular build, and slight Southern drawl, Sam was downright exotic for this cow town. Every single girl in the room gawked at him, and all the boys shifted uncomfortably as their girlfriends did little to hide their desire. Kurt was no exception. The thing that caught him first was that overly bright smile with just a hint of nerves behind it. Then when the smile faded and he licked those perfect, sexy, kissable lips, Kurt knew he was hooked.

But Sam's sexuality was impossible to ascertain. Kurt was used to blunt, at times even forceful rejection. Straight boys were afraid of him, afraid of what they didn't understand and afraid of what would happen to their reputations. If they suspected, even without foundation, that they were the objects of his longing, they panicked and attempted to crush out any feelings he may have had without even the slightest bit of mercy or regret. Karofsky shoved him into lockers and threatened to beat him up daily. Even Finn, the so-called leader of their team, had called him a filthy name when he made his feelings known. Yeah, maybe he had been a little forward with Finn, but he didn't understand why the way he felt had to be such a sensitive subject. If he had unreciprocated feelings for a girl, she would just say no, not blow up like Finn had. Why did he always have to walk on eggshells so that people weren't offended by an innocent crush? It wasn't fair.

So when Kurt asked Sam to sing a duet with him and Sam agreed without any hint of malice, Kurt was sure he knew. He had needed a little convincing that it was still a duet when two boys sang together, but Sam wasn't freaked out by his sexuality and didn't treat him like an alien. Kurt always felt a little bit alien. He swung back and forth between wanting to be treated like a regular guy and wanting to indulge the femininity that was such a huge part of him. He didn't quite fit in with the girls, no matter how much they adored him because, well, he wasn't one. And he just had nothing in common with the other boys. He was so tired of trying to be one of the girls or one of the boys. Why couldn't he just be himself, somewhere in between?

Sam seemed to get that. He just looked at Kurt like another person. One time, Kurt had commented that Sam was so normal. So blond, so heartland America, so . . . normal. Sam had just laughed, more with those animated eyes than with his voice.

"It's high school. None of us are normal."

Then Kurt let Finn get to him. When he backed out of the duet competition, Sam had seemed genuinely hurt, like he was trying to figure out how he'd been a bad friend to Kurt. "Like a bad puppy," Kurt had immediately thought, staring through the shower mist at the wet blond with sad eyes. "Maybe he even looks disappointed," Kurt allowed himself to think. "Maybe he was looking forward to spending time with me." Kurt pondered whether it was even possible that a boy who looked like Sam could be interested in him. He chided himself that Sam was probably just too dumb to understand what he was doing, but secretly, he let himself dream.

Just when Kurt thought he would get his chance to get closer, Sam blew his mind by launching into this massive courtship campaign of Quinn Fabray. Kurt spent much of his day staring at Sam staring at Quinn. Every time she walked by in the halls, Sam would hold his breath, his chest constricting painfully. His lips would tremble at the corners as he tried not to smile that huge, stupid smile Kurt hated that he loved. Soon enough they were dating, and Sam was submerged in a perpetual love-haze, not hearing a single word unless they fell from Quinn's pretty pink lips.

It was just typical. She would get him. She got everything she wanted, and that usually meant she got everything _he_ wanted. Why couldn't they want him the way they all wanted her? It just really wasn't fair. Ever. Ken and Barbie. Barbie and Ken. Kurt wanted to puke every time people commented on how _cute_ they were together. Well it wasn't cute. It was boring, and it was typical, and it wasn't fair. He hoped that they were so closely related on the Aryan family tree that their babies had six toes.

When Sam had his accident, as everyone was now calling it, Kurt immediately abandoned all his sexual pinings for him and desperately prayed for the recovery of his friend. Regardless of whether Sam would ever be his boyfriend, Kurt valued him as a friend and was terrified at the prospect of losing someone so close to him. He was way too young, and this was way too horrible. It could have been any of them. There were nights when he lost sleep over the nightmare that it could have been him.

As much as he detested the idea of losing to Quinn Fabray _again_, Kurt didn't find it too difficult to be there for her. She was a victim too, just a kid trying to deal with the nightmare of having someone she cared for deeply torn away from her. They were all in the same boat. They were all shocked, and sick, and sad. Kurt couldn't hold that against Quinn. He watched her struggle to be strong. She was clearly trying to conceal her own fear and heartbreak for Sam's sake, and Kurt admired her for that.

He was quietly supportive of her throughout the entire ordeal. But now that Sam was getting better, and things were returning to normal? Game on, bitch.

Over the weeks leading up to Christmas vacation, Kurt saw the life slowly returning to Sam. When he first came back to school, it was like he was numb. Cold, unfeeling, unresponsive. Mercedes once called his name four or five times before he even noticed, and when he finally did, he got distracted again in the middle of her question. He was like a ghost floating around the halls, a ghost with hollow, sunken eyes. Even physically, he just looked so deflated, and Kurt's crush rapidly devolved into a feeling of deep pity for a hurting child.

Now, though, he was starting to recover. The light was coming back to his eyes, and he was starting to look at things again with that stupid, joyous wonder Kurt found so endearing. He held his shoulders straighter, there was a buoyancy in his step, and his chin wasn't constantly buried in his chest. There were still times when Kurt caught him staring off into space, a painful mixture of fear and sadness clouding his eyes. Overall, though, he was much improved. Kurt knew that he was sleeping at Quinn's house, and that Quinn's constant support was a big factor in Sam's slow recovery. He'd be lying if he said he wasn't jealous. But he was getting better, and that was something he couldn't take away from Quinn.

Kurt knew that their recent ordeal was cementing the bond between Sam and Quinn. He could see the love in Sam's eyes every time he looked at her. He would be there for Sam as he battled his demons; he vowed to be a good friend to him. He refused to look at Sam like the alien species he always felt like. No one could deny him his private feelings, though, could they? He was so attracted to Sam, now for his inner strength as much as his for physical beauty. It couldn't hurt anything if he got closer to Sam, as a friend. No one had to know how he felt, or what he thought about when he closed his eyes at night.

Kurt rifled off some witty response to Mr. Schue, which seemed to satisfy the rest of the club. Either that or they were bored, since they had already turned back around and started in on their own discussions. When the bell rang, Kurt leapt from his chair and pranced down the risers, anxious to catch up with Sam before his arm laced around Barbie's waist. He caught him just as he was about to step out the door with Quinn. Excited, Kurt reached out, his fingers connecting with the back of Sam's arm, just above his elbow.

Sam's shoulders tensed. Kurt was frozen as the taller boy whirled around, fists up guarding his face. He looked like an animal. His eyes were wild, glowing with some strange desperation and adrenaline. Every muscle in his body contracted, ready to spring.

"Jesus, Sam!"

"Oh, um, Kurt. Sorry, I just, uh."

Sam's fists dropped to his sides but remained balled up, nails digging into his palms. His eyes shot around, unfocused, as he shifted from one foot to the other. He fidgeted anxiously, looking anywhere but into Kurt's eyes. "What the hell?" Kurt thought. "He can't possibly be scared of me, can he?" Kurt Hummel was probably the least physically imposing person at McKinley. And Sam was, well, Sam. Kurt tried to remember if he had seen Sam respond this way to anyone else, but he was too stunned and confused to think straight.

"Sam?"

He reached out a hand to rest on Sam's shoulder but was only able to brush a few fingertips across his collarbone before he drew back harshly. Kurt dropped his hand down to his side. It felt heavy, like a concrete block attached to his arm.

"What, uhh. I mean, what, what do you want Kurt?"

The question wasn't rude so much as it was clearly uncomfortable. And Sam's obvious discomfort was making Kurt fidget with discomfort as well. Now both boys avoided making eye contact with each other. Kurt stuffed his hands in his pockets, then smoothed the hemline of his shirt. Damn this guy to hell for making him feel so awkward. Even when acting so strangely, Sam was still handsome enough to make Kurt feel weak and insecure.

"Well, I was just thinking. You're going to Rachel's New Year's Eve party right? I mean, we all are. And I was thinking, ya know, maybe you wanna get a coffee before and head over to the party together? It would give us time to catch up. We haven't really talked much since everything happened and I just thought it would be nice if we spent more time together. You know, as friends. Like friends do. We should be better friends."

Kurt had a rule that he imposed strictly upon himself. Stop talking when you feel dumb. Because if you feel dumb, it probably sounds dumb. And if you sound dumb, well then, it's just time to stop. So he stopped and waited for an answer.

"I'm going with Quinn."

Kurt just stared at him. Was that a real answer? Of course he was going with Quinn, but did that matter? Did showing up to Rachel's party with his girlfriend on his arm really prevent him from getting some coffee with a friend beforehand? Kurt didn't even feel like Sam was answering the question that he had been asked. He didn't feel like he had even really been listening. And he had the sickening feeling that whatever answer Sam would have for him, pretty much for any question he would ever have, would include the words "Quinn Fabray." Kurt stared coolly into the taller boy's eyes, daring him to meet them. He was going with Quinn. What the hell kind of answer was that?

"Look, uh, Kurt. I'm sorry, I jus, uh . . . I gotta go. I'm sorry."

With that, Sam practically bolted out of the choir room. Quinn was long gone, so he wasn't racing to catch up with her. "So basically he's just trying to get away from me," Kurt thought, sullenly. If he was being completely honest with himself, he was hurt. Not only was this the boy he had a serious crush on, but it was also the only boy who had been unconditionally kind to him. He never made Kurt feel uncomfortable about being gay, and he never made him feel different. Now he was acting just like all the others. "He's changed. What the hell happened?" Kurt asked aloud, but no one was in the room to hear his question.

He was hurting, but Kurt Hummel never showed pain, so he took a deep breath, constructed his perfect porcelain façade, and stepped out into the hallway.

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As soon as Sam got out of the choir room, he sprinted for the boys' bathroom, knocking shoulders with everyone in his way. Bursting through the door, he shrugged out of his letter jacket and threw himself on his knees in front of the toilet. He gripped the sides of the bowl and tried to hold himself steady as he retched uncontrollably. He hadn't eaten, so there was nothing to throw up, but the contractions in his stomach muscles were powerful, trying for all the world to force his stomach inside out. Hot tears stung in the back of his eyes as he retched painfully. He wished at least something would come up so it didn't hurt so much.

When the nausea finally subsided, he collected himself from the floor and stepped out of the stall. He steadied himself against the sink as he examined himself in the mirror. He was pale as a ghost and trembling, with a cold sweat breaking out across the back of his neck. His eyes were red. Fortunately, no one else was in the bathroom to witness this little incident, because he looked a complete wreck.

He cupped his hands and filled them with water from the sink, swirling the cool water through his mouth. He splashed his face then looked up at himself again. "A bit better," he thought. "Well, at least presentable."

It was a panic attack. He hadn't had many of them, not enough to understand them or know how to prevent them, but when they came, they were gripping. When one came over him, it felt like every single nerve in his body was on edge. Like electric shockwaves would pulse through him at even the slightest touch. His heart raced, and he found it impossible to breathe. Worst of all, it was mortifying. It showed the entire world that, while he was getting better, he wasn't perfect. He was still suffering from some very real feelings. But he'd rather they think he was perfect.

He'd lucked out this time that he and Kurt had been alone in the choir room, but who knew how many people would be around the next time. He would just have to make sure that no one ever saw.

Sighing, Sam put his jacket back on and headed off to his next class. He hoped he hadn't offended Kurt too badly.


	21. Chapter 21

**Hey everyone, here's another little chapter to keep us moving. I've got to build a few little plot elements, and then I promise we'll get back into the drama. Also, please understand that I know trials don't proceed this fast, but we're going to do it anyway so I don't have pass a year in time. Enjoy, and look for a new chapter early next week! **

Chapter 21

Sam bounced along in the passenger seat of his dad's pick up, pressing his hands underneath his legs to keep them from shaking on the two and a half hour drive to Indianapolis. The criminal case against his four attackers was originally brought in Ohio state court, but was quickly removed to federal court in light of the child pornography charges. All four of them had pled not guilty to the murder, attempted murder, rape, and manufacturing and distribution of child pornography charges. Trial was scheduled for the beginning of February, a little over a month away.

About a week ago, Sam and his family were sitting on boxes around the fold out tray table they used as a dinner table sharing a Christmas dinner of buttered spaghetti when the phone rang. It was the Assistant U.S. Attorney assigned to prosecute the case, and he wanted to meet with Sam and Dwight to discuss the details of the trial. He apologized for calling during the holidays, but assured Dwight that with trial approaching so soon afterwards, it was urgent to have Sam prepared. With a promise to pay for the gas, the AUSA had convinced Dwight to bring Sam out to Indiana the following Wednesday, between Christmas and New Year.

Now, they were in the car headed to the prosecutor's office in the federal courthouse for the Southern District of Indiana. Sam was nervous as hell. His dad made him wear a pair of slacks and a button down shirt with a tie. The pants and shirt were Finn's, and they were a little too big. Finn was two inches taller and about thirty-five pounds heavier, and although Sam was deeply grateful for his friend's help, he felt a bit like a rag doll in his clothes. He tucked the shirt into the pants as far as possible to pull it taut and held everything in place with his own belt.

It didn't help that he was losing weight. They were all doing their best to try to hide from Stevie and Stacy how desperate things really were. That usually meant that the three adults in the family were skipping meals and eating less than they should when they got the opportunity. Mary stocked them up on cheap things that packed as many calories as possible like rice and pasta, but in the few months that they'd been unable to afford anything but staple groceries, the evidence of hunger began to show on their bodies. All of their clothes fit looser, and Mary, already delicately thin, was all angular elbows and knees. Sam's cheeks were hollowing out, and his ribs were starting to poke a bit above his hard-earned abs. Quinn begged Sam to eat more when he came over to her house around 10 o'clock every evening. He always politely refused. The idea of being able to eat normally when his parents couldn't produced a sense of profound guilt in him that was impossible to overcome.

Sam pulled his belt tighter around his hips to hold Finn's slacks in place and tugged uncomfortably at the tie. He shot a resentful glare at his dad for not letting him wear a pair of his own jeans like he had wanted, but his dad just chuckled and reached over to ruffle his hair.

"Almost there, buddy."

When they pulled into the parking lot of the courthouse, Sam stared up at the massive building. It looked like one of the ancient Greek ruins his teacher had showed them in history class, except for the ruined part, obviously. Sam had never been somewhere so important in his life. Once, back in Tennessee when they weren't so poor, his parents had taken them to Graceland. Until today, that was the most spectacular, awe-inspiring place he'd ever been. He felt his knees shaking a bit, and his feet felt too heavy. His dad must have noticed his apprehension, because he reached out to lay a hand on his shoulder.

"I'm nervous, too, buddy. But we've got each other, right?"

Sam just nodded and let his dad lead him up the grand marble steps and through the heavy doors.

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The AUSA's office was much bigger than Figgins'. It was lined all around with thick law books, and his desk was massive and sturdy. When Sam timidly knocked on the door, his dad standing behind him with hands on his shoulders for support, the prosecutor welcomed them in with a friendly smile. He introduced himself as Nolan Walker and invited them to sit down in two heavy leather armchairs. Sam sat on the edge of his seat, picking at worn cuticles. His dad reached over and clasped one large hand over both of Sam's, stopping his fidgeting.

Mr. Walker leaned back against the front of his desk.

"Before we get started I wanted to thank you both for coming out today. Really, this trial is going to center around you, Sam, as the only surviving victim. I know that's a heavy burden to bear, but I can assure you, I'm going to walk you through this, and I'll be right by your side the entire time. I'm going to do everything I can to make this process as painless as possible."

Sam did his best to muster a weak smile for the man.

He really did seem nice. Mr. Walker was about thirty-five with some grey at the temples of his dark hair. He had bright blue eyes with deep creased wrinkles around them, giving the impression that he had been smiling broadly his entire life. It made him seem friendly and approachable. His voice was steady and calming. Sam instantly trusted him and believed that he would keep him from getting hurt as much as he possibly could in this insane process.

"So, Sam, I've got some news I think you're going to like to hear."

He looked up at the prosecutor expectantly, his shoulders tensing.

"I don't intend to offer any of the video evidence at trial, and I'm almost certain you won't have to testify."

Sam's eyes slid shut, and he leaned back in the chair, expelling the breath he had been holding. All he could think about for the last few weeks was the possibility of being forced to recount every single, wretched detail of his tortured ordeal. The thought actually made him sick.

"I'm going to show segments from the videos we recovered of each of the other thirteen victims. This is absolutely going to be difficult for the families of those boys, and for you, too. There's no getting around that. But you're the survivor here, and if I can, I want to spare you being dragged through this all again as much as possible. Instead of showing that video, we'll put the detectives and FBI who worked your case on the stand, the young couple who found you on that road in Lima, and the surgeon, who will describe your injuries and the DNA evidence. All of that evidence, which we'll present after we've made our case for the other boys, will be strong enough to get a conviction for you."

"Now, I want to warn you, the defense absolutely has a right to call you and confront you. If they want to, they can force you onto the stand and question you. I just think that's pretty unlikely. After all of those video segments, we're going to show the pattern and link you into it. I can't imagine what they would want to ask you. If they put you on the stand, they take the risk of the jury completely sympathizing with you. You're a sweet kid, the perfect sympathetic victim. The jury will eat you up. They just won't want to risk that for the very slim chance that you come across as dishonest on the stand. Not after all the other evidence we present. How does that sound kiddo?"

Sam sat silently. He wasn't confused by anything that Mr. Walker explained to him, but his emotions were mixed up. On one hand, he was thrilled that he wasn't going to be publicly humiliated by the showing of that video. He had no idea what was on the video, but he knew what the material must look like, and he wasn't sure he could handle sitting in a room full of people with their eyes glued to the image of his broken body. And he didn't know how much better he'd be sitting up on that witness stand. He could feel his chest constricting just thinking about it. He knew he would stutter and blush wildly. He wasn't bright. Definitely not cut out for speaking in public. He appreciated the fact that he wouldn't have to suffer through any of that.

On the other hand, though, trial made everything so real. He'd have to sit in the same room with Tyler as he leered at him, and watch video after video of other boys who suffered the same fate as he did. Worse, even. They lost their lives. He felt deeply sorry for them, like he wished he could have protected them somehow. Thank God Mr. Walker was going to spare him.

Sam looked over and saw his dad and Mr. Walker staring at him. Apparently he had been sitting silently for longer than he realized. Apparently a response was required of him. If he was being honest, he didn't really remember what they had been talking about before he had drifted off in his own thoughts.

But his dad jumped in to rescue him. Clapping a hand on Sam's knee, he turned and smiled brightly at Mr. Walker.

"Well, Mr. Walker, that's certainly good news. We, uh, we understand how hard this is all going to be for the other families," he said, looking down for a moment. "But we appreciate you trying to spare Sam as much as you can."

Mr. Walker shook Dwight's hand firmly as he stood to go. A smile crept over Sam's lips, and he allowed himself the indulgence. It wasn't one of his big, dumb, Quinn-made smiles, but it was the happiest anyone had seen him in a long time, and the gratitude was clear in his bright eyes.


	22. Chapter 22

**Ok guys, let's get to it! This chapter's a bit longer, and it's the beginning of the last phase. This will start the drama rolling again. Warnings for smut.**

Chapter 22

Kurt nursed his watery Cape Cod, curled tightly into the corner of the sofa in Rachel's Oscar Room. At one point, there was a solid shot of vodka in it, but he had been sipping at the same drink for hours, topping it off with more cranberry juice and ice each time it started to taste a bit strong. His eyes were fixed on the two blonds hiding in the corner, limbs entwined. Sam had a half empty bottle of tequila pressed to his lips, wincing as he swallowed harshly. Quinn's lips were pressed close to his ear, mischief in her eyes. When she pulled back, she and Sam were both smiling and laughing, though Kurt couldn't hear them. Sam's eyes sparkled.

He took another sip and scanned the room. Tina was in Mike's lap on a chair, making out. Rachel and Finn were drunkenly slow dancing. Britney was lap dancing over Artie's wheelchair. Even Zizes and Puckerman were practically cooing at each other, faces inches apart, deep in conversation. Where was his romance? Where was his starry-eyed lover caressing his cheek and staring at him as if he was the whole world? Where was his teenage dream? Everyone else seemed to have exactly what they were looking for, except him. How cruel was the world to make him gay, then not give him someone to walk through it with?

Any hopes of that person being Sam Evans were quickly being dashed.

Kurt had been at Rachel's New Year's party for almost half an hour when Sam showed up, his arm wrapped around Quinn's waist. He walked past without even looking at Kurt, but Kurt could feel him as he passed by. He was enveloped in a cloud of cold, outdoors air, and he smelled like a mixture of honey shampoo and freshly fallen snow. The leather jacket hanging across his broad shoulders was worn almost completely through in places, and it looked to Kurt's fashionable sensibilities like he had dug it out of some thrift store pile. But he still managed to make Kurt's skin tingle without even touching him.

Breathing his name, Kurt stared up at the blond boy with longing. Kurt's eyes widened with panic as he saw the muscles in Sam's back tense. That hadn't been out loud had it? Fuck. Sam paused and glanced backwards over his shoulder, making eye contact with Kurt for just a moment before looking away awkwardly. Quinn laid a hand on his shoulder and lifted herself to her tiptoes to whisper something in his ear. He smiled down at her, but Kurt could tell it was forced. As he let her pull him towards a group of friends, he glanced back again. Kurt swore he could see something like fear in his eyes.

Kurt had kept a close eye on the couple, and when Quinn gathered Tina and Zizes to join her in the ladies room, Kurt had forged his way through the dancing bodies and made his way over to Sam. Sam was sprawled on the couch, one arm lying along the back of the couch, jean clad legs lazily askew. Kurt struggled to keep his eyes from crawling up to the place where those long legs met. Sam didn't notice the older boy approach and threw back another shot of tequila. At that point, he was still civilized enough to be using a shot glass. Kurt watched his adam's apple slide with the long swig of liquor. When Sam finally did notice him, he just about jumped out of his skin, sitting bolt upright.

"Hi, Sam," Kurt whispered.

Sam forced a small smile to his lips and nodded slightly. His eyes immediately shot out past Kurt to scan the room. He looked desperate, like he was looking for someone to save him. Kurt stepped directly in his line of sight, and Sam blushed, producing an exact replica of that pathetic little smile. Kurt could see his genuine effort to make eye contact, but he couldn't sustain it and kept glancing in all directions. He began screwing and unscrewing the top of the tequila bottle.

"Sam, can we talk?"

Sam's agitation was growing, as evidenced by the physical ticks he was displaying at an alarming rate.

"I, um, I don't think that's a good—"

"Just hear me out," Kurt cut in. "I want to know what's going on with us. We used to be friends, now you're avoiding me all the time and you look like you're going to panic whenever I'm around. What's going on? If it's something I did, you can at least give me the courtesy of telling me what it is."

Kurt stood with one hand on his hip, the other clutching his cranberry cocktail. He knew he looked harsh, but he couldn't help it. He was upset. There weren't many people who treated him normally, especially not boys. And Sam had gone from being the nicest guy in the whole school to treating him worse than the rest of them. He didn't care much about Karofsky. He was scared a bit, sure, but he didn't like the boy and didn't care what he thought about him. But why was Sam doing this to him? If he was going to lose a friend, he deserved an explanation. Didn't he?

From the way Sam looked, though, Kurt was becoming increasingly sure that he wasn't going to get one. He appeared to be having an almost violent physical reaction. Kurt watched as his collarbone rose and fell in halting gasps, some so violent and painful that it looked as if the bone would pierce through the delicate skin covering it. His shoulders were tensed so hard they were slightly shaking. His eyes were darting, no longer seeking someone to rescue him, but instead merely reacting to the nervous jolts he was clearly experiencing. Kurt flinched. Sam looked like he was in pain, and apparently Kurt was the cause of it. He didn't understand it, at all, but he never ever wanted it to be that way. His features softened.

"Sam, please," he whispered, taking a step closer and holding his hands up, imploring.

"I can't, Kurt! I'm sorry, I'm really sorry. I just can't!"

Sam bolted from the couch and darted straight to the spot where Quinn was emerging from the bathroom. Kurt could see his eyes squeeze shut as Quinn slipped her arms loosely around his waist. He leaned down to rest his forehead against hers. She shot a glance at Kurt, and in her eyes, he swore he could see accusation. What the fuck. Apparently he had done something terrible to this kid, and no one was going to tell him what it was.

Kurt had simply returned to the sofa, reeling inside. Was he that offensive, just by his mere existence? He felt cold, hardened. It was unfair. He was a sweet person, caring and genuine. When some boy finally allowed Kurt to love him, he knew he would make an incredible boyfriend. It was starting to seem, though, like no one would ever let him in. Kurt curled himself tightly into the corner of the couch, curling his knees underneath him as he sipped at his drink.

For the past few hours, Kurt sat alone and watched Sam and Quinn as they grew more and more intoxicated. By midnight, Quinn was pressed firmly in his lap, her fingers entwined in his hair. His strong arms wrapped her waist in a vice, pressing them tightly together. When they weren't completely sucking face, they were giggling stupidly, noses pressed together, placing sloppy kisses over each other's faces and necks. Disgusting.

Minutes after midnight, when the two blondes stumbled out of the room together without attracting notice, Kurt threw his glass to the floor. It shattered, sending shards of glass and purplish-pink liquid spraying across the room. Ten pairs of drunken eyes turned to him.

"Excuse me," Kurt stated dryly, exiting through the back door and sitting himself down on the steps leading from the Berry's patio to their vast backyard. He drew his comfort from the darkness of the night.

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The alcohol was doing a lot to calm the effects of the panic attack Sam had felt coming on earlier. In fact, he hadn't felt this good in a long time. He was able to laugh freely with his friends without inhibition, and his friends were noticing the change, too. Glimpses of his dopey, dorky personality were on display for the first time since the accident. Sam didn't care that people laughed at his impressions in the bad way, or that they mocked his Na'vi. He felt normal.

Kurt's approach had instigated another panic attack, but three more tequila shots and a beer fixed that pretty quickly. He didn't really remember counting down to midnight. All he could think about was Quinn's body melted into his. She was soft, almost limp, in his arms, but she was radiating warmth that Sam could feel deep in his bones. A soft blush painted her perfect ivory cheeks, and her lips were flushed a deep coral. Sam brushed his thumb across those perfect lips and felt his breath catch in his throat when they parted slightly. Her breath was warm, and her tongue flicked out to wet his thumb. Her eyes locked with his, full of electricity.

Mesmerized, Sam got lost in her eyes. Her lids were heavy from the alcohol, but Sam saw something else in them. They were deep, hazel bordering on brown, pupils slightly dilated. Her lips were parted, and she was drawing in air in soft pants. Her small hands were roaming from his chest down his torso, enjoying the feel of the muscles rippling through the fabric of his shirt. Sam moved a hand around to her thigh, and she didn't stop him as his fingers glided over her smooth, warm skin. She parted her legs ever so slightly as his hand approached, giggling against his lips.

He froze as his fingertips made contact with the delicate cotton of her panties. The fabric nestled between her thighs was soaking wet. Sliding a finger along her, he could feel the distinct outline of her lips through the thin material. She shuddered, and he felt himself instantly hardening. Within seconds he was straining against his jeans, fidgeting uncomfortably and shifting Quinn in his lap. Normally he would have been mortified by the erection, but he was far too drunk to be embarrassed.

Feeling him stiffening against her bottom, Quinn giggled again, her eyes full of mischief and mirth. She pressed her lips to his ear.

"Let's go upstairs," she whispered hotly.

Sam pulled back to look at her, eyes widening. Then a grin broke out over his face, sending her into a fit of drunken laughter. He laughed too, and before he knew it, she had hopped off his lap and was tugging him to his feet. He stumbled slightly against her, and she sank a bit under his weight before he righted himself. They scanned the room. No one was watching as they slid stealthily towards the door. Or at least they thought they were stealthy; in reality, they were tripping over each other's feet and would be causing a scene if everyone else wasn't so drunk as well.

Sam barely had control of his own legs, and trying to hold Quinn up was proving next to impossible. Quinn pranced up the steps and Sam dashed after her, taking two steps at a time. But he was too fast and tripped, crashing down on top of her on the carpeted stairs. They both laughed hysterically, Quinn snorting slightly. God she was hot. He wrapped an arm under her lower back and pressed his lips to hers, using his other hand to nudge her skirt up. He had to touch her again.

"Not here, silly!" she scolded, pushing playfully at his chest.

Sam righted himself and helped her up, managing to make it up the rest of the steps. At the top of the landing, Sam picked Quinn up by the waist and wrapped his left arm around her tightly, supporting her. She giggled and lightly kicked at him. He pushed open the first door he saw and hastened through it, gently tossing Quinn onto the bed. He turned and moved back to the door to lock it, and by the time he turned back around, Quinn's cotton dress was brushing up past her thighs.

He stood fixed as it traveled up, revealing the crotch of her panties stained a slightly darker color from her wetness. Up over her smooth, flat stomach and her adorable belly button. Past her tiny waist, past the outline of her ribs. Up and up past the underwire of her bra, past the full swell of her small breasts, past her collarbone, and to the floor. Sam didn't know how long he had been standing there staring when Quinn scolded him.

"Well are you just gonna stand there gawking or are you gonna take that off?" she slurred, sounding slightly Southern.

Sam snapped back into reality, his heart racing. He tugged at the hem of his t-shirt, pulling it up over his head. He got himself tangled in it and, momentarily blinded by the shirt, almost tripped himself again but managed to catch the corner of a dresser before he fell. He finally got the miserable tormentor off of him and threw it to the floor with a huff. His fingers fumbled at his belt buckle as he approached her, and by the time he reached her, he was in a full pout, unable to undo it himself.

Quinn giggled as she pulled Sam close to her by the waistband of his jeans. She deftly unhooked his belt and slid it from the loops as his hands found their way to her breasts, pushing the cups down below her flesh. His eyes were glued to her. Her breasts were small, but firm and perky, the small pink nipples pointing upward. He had never seen them before. He had never seen any for that matter, not real ones anyway. He rolled his thumbs over the nipples, watching intently as they sprang back from his touch. He didn't even notice that she had unbuttoned his jeans and pushed them down from his hips.

Her hand latched onto his erection through the tented material of his boxer briefs, eliciting a startled moan. She pulled him by his cock to the bed, stumbling backwards onto it when the backs of her knees made contact with the mattress. Sam gripped her by the waist and moved her up, laying her head on the pillows. Her luscious blonde hair streamed around her face, framing her like a halo.

Without thinking, Sam tugged her panties down off her hips, then slid them over her thighs, past her knees, and to the floor. He shucked his boxer briefs in an instant. When they tangled around his ankles, he tripped, falling face first onto the bed. Groaning, he pulled himself up to Quinn. She spread her legs wide and held her arms open for him to crawl on top of her. Once he was back in her arms, her nails scratching gently along his spine, Sam pressed his lips to hers and parted hers with his tongue.

When they pulled apart, they were both panting. Sam propped himself up on his elbows, his face hovering inches from hers. He stared into her eyes, filled with lust. He was sure his looked the same.

"I need you inside me Sam," Quinn whispered, reaching down between them to line his hard flesh up with her entrance.

"Don't we need—"

"I'm on the pill now, just do it," she hissed.

Locking his open mouth to hers, he pressed into her. Electric shockwaves jolted through his entire body as the head of his cock slid an inch into her tight, hot depths. Then when he broke their kiss and looked into her perfect face, he saw it.

She tensed. She winced.

He froze.

"I'm fine, just go slow," she stated. "I haven't done this since, since—"

But the pain on her face was clear.

Without warning, he was back in a brightly lit room, draped like a broken doll over a filthy blue couch. The muscles in his body were so tense that they were spasming as he felt the hard weapon press against him in his most vulnerable place. He wanted to beg. He wanted to scream. Anything to make that force prying at him stop. But nothing would make it stop. He felt the first tear. It felt like when he was young and silly kids on the playground would give each other Indian burns. Except this time his flesh kept pulling and pulling until he could feel it rip. Nausea rose in his stomach as his body tore open to accommodate the enraged weapon pushing into him. The splitting muscles quivered, trying to hold themselves intact. Don't puke. Don't puke. It'll be over soon. Just close your eyes. It'll be over soon.

Sam opened his eyes and saw Quinn beneath him, her eyes sharp with fear.

"Sam? Sam? What's wrong?"

He clambered back off of her and leapt off the bed, trying to control his flailing limbs. He grabbed at his boxers and jeans and pulled them up in one motion, hopping to keep from tripping.

"I'm so sorry! I'm so sorry Quinn! Please forgive me. Please. I'm so sorry!" he wailed, pulling his t-shirt on.

Quinn shot up in the bed, holding the sheet to her chest.

"Sam!"

But he was already out the door.

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Kurt had been sitting on the back steps for nearly an hour. It was almost one in the morning, and he hoped that Finn and Rachel would be done making out soon so Finn could take him home. The cold air felt good against his flushed skin, and staring into the deep black woods lining Rachel's yard was mesmerizing, but he was getting tired. And lonely, but no one seemed to care about that. Part of him was glad that no one had come looking for him after he left. He was enjoying the quiet. The other part, though, wished that one of his friends would have cared enough to step outside and sit with him. Where was Mercedes? She was single, too.

Without warning, the back door flew open and a tall form burst through, collapsing down on the steps a few lower than where Kurt was sitting. The figure's elbows hit his knees, and a blond head sunk into his hands. Kurt would know that wild blond hair anywhere. Sam's fingers gripped harshly at his hair and a soft groan escaped his lips. Kurt was horrified when Sam began to slowly rock himself. He wanted more than anything to reach out and comfort his friend, even if Sam had changed and wasn't his friend anymore. But he was afraid to. He was afraid that Sam would panic and run away again. More than that, he didn't want to hurt him any worse than he appeared to already be hurting.

"Sam?" it was nothing more than a whisper, but in the silence of the cold night, it rang out like a bell.

Sam lifted his head from his hands and turned slowly to the voice. He hadn't realized anyone was out there with him. Kurt.

"Hey," he whispered back. His voice was hoarse. A minute of silence passed between them.

"I'm sorry Kurt," Sam pronounced quietly, pausing to look back at the boy perched behind him.

"Can I come sit on the step next to you?" Kurt asked cautiously, not wanting Sam to spook as he had done every time they had spoken in the past weeks.

Sam nodded, and Kurt slowly slid down the steps, leaving a few feet of space between them. Kurt could smell the alcohol on him, and he could see the bleariness in Sam's eyes, but the cold air or the onset of this sudden pain seemed to have sobered him up significantly. Kurt examined him like a foreign species in the zoo. He wasn't really sure how to approach him.

"Do you wanna tell me what's wrong?" he tried.

"Everything," Sam muttered, his head finding its way back into his hands, fingers tugging at the blond strands. He dropped his face to his knees and clenched his teeth, screaming through them. His hands balled up into fists and slammed down onto the steps on either side of him. His eyes squeezed shut. Kurt just looked on, sad, but intrigued. When the scream ended, Sam seemed to relax. He took a deep breath, released his fists, and straightened up. He turned to look at Kurt, sadness and shame present in his eyes.

"I'm sorry, Kurt. I'm just . . . I'm just having a rough go of it sometimes, ya know?"

Kurt nodded, hoping Sam would continue.

"I'm getting better, I know I am. But sometimes it's like I get ahead of myself. Like I feel so normal, like nothing ever happened, so I do something just like I normally would, and all the sudden everything's flying back in my face and kicks me in the ass. And other times I'm just sitting around, minding my business, and all these thoughts flood up, and the memories. It's like I'm paralyzed."

Kurt paused, allowing Sam's thoughts to settle. He knew the boy was struggling, but something still plagued him.

"What's going on with us, Sam? You've been so weird around me. I don't understand."

"Oh, Kurt," Sam looked away. "I'm so sorry. I know I've been really shitty to you, I just can't."

"Can't what? Talk about it?"

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"I just can't."

"Sam, I'm sorry, I just really need to understand. You were the nicest guy I knew and you were always so genuine with me. You never made me feel like I was weird. And everything's different now, you look at me like I'm going to attack you. I need to understand why."

Sam sighed, rubbing his temples with the heels of his hands.

"Ok."

"Ok?"

"Yeah, ok. Just give me a second."

Kurt nodded and turned to stare out into the woods again. After five minutes passed in silence, Kurt heard him inhale deeply.

"They raped me."

Kurt's eyes shot to the boy sitting next to him, stunned, but Sam was holding himself perfectly still, staring out at the woods. His voice was barely audible, and Kurt had to be just as still to hear him.

"I've never actually said those words, but that's what happened. They raped me. All of them. For hours. And then they'd come back and do it again. By the end I didn't even fight. They videotaped everything and sold it. A hundred thousand people, apparently."

"_Wow," Kurt thought. "Just . . . wow. No wonder the poor thing's a total wreck. But what does that have to do with . . . Oh God. No. He couldn't possibly think . . . Oh God."_

Sam turned to face Kurt, and Kurt could see the tears forming in his eyes and hear the waver in his voice. He was trying so hard to be strong, but there was agony in his eyes, turning them a shade of deep green bordering on black.

"It's just, the way they looked at me. I can't get it out of my head. They looked at me like they wanted me. They looked at me like, like . . ."

Sam couldn't say the words that Kurt knew were coming. He was about to break. Kurt felt like he would break any moment, too.

"They looked at you like I look at you," Kurt offered quietly.

Sam just turned away, a single, choked sob escaping his lips. He pressed his hands to his forehead and squeezed his eyes shut to force back the tears.

"I'm so sorry Kurt."

Kurt didn't respond. Not because he was angry or because he didn't want to accept Sam's apology, but because he needed time to think of what to say. Trying to comfort Sam would be pointless. He didn't understand what he was going through, and he had no advice to give on how to recover. He just wanted to make sure he said the right thing. This moment, and how he handled it, seemed crucial to Kurt. The silence between them passed easily.

"Sam," Kurt breathed, composing himself. "I know that you're hurt. What they did to you was pure evil, and it should never happen to anyone. But you need to understand, they didn't do this to you because they're gay. They did it because they're monsters. Gay or straight, what they did to you was about violence."

Sam turned to him, listening intently.

"Look Sam, you're right. I had a crush on you. I thought you were really cute, and I still do. But gay boys feel things the same way everyone else does. We get crushes, and we daydream and draw doodley hearts. We want to hold hands and go for walks and kiss and be romantic. Just like straight kids do. Just like you and Quinn do. Look, I'm going to back off, I promise, and we're going to be friends. I just want for you to understand that what those monsters did to you has nothing, _nothing_ to do with how boys love each other. Someday, when I have a boyfriend who loves me, I'm going to look at him just like you look at Quinn, like he's the only person in the world. And it'll be so perfect and romantic. I want to be happy too, Sam, and _none_ of that involves _anyone_ being in pain. Does that make sense?"

Sam nodded, that sheepish, crooked grin pulling at his lips.

"I'm sorry I've been lousy to you, Kurt."

"You don't have to be sorry, but apology accepted. Can we try to be friends again?"

Sam nodded sleepily.

"Good. Let's go inside, ok? You should probably find Quinn and take her home. And your shirt's on backwards."

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**Dear beloved readers, if you've gotten to the end of this chapter and are thinking "That was it?" have no fear! This chapter is NOT the M chapter previously referred to. Please be patient!**


	23. Chapter 23

**Hey guys, thanks for reading and reviewing last chapter! As one of you mentioned, this story doesn't get too many reviews, but that's to be expected given the nature of the subject matter. Those of you who do review are DEDICATED! and it makes my day to publish a new chapter and see how you all like it. Here's the latest, and you can expect a short update perhaps this weekend or the beginning of next week. Then we'll start getting into some of the hard-hitting trial material. Enjoy! **

Chapter 23

Nolan Walker clicked through his email Monday morning, a bagel balanced between his teeth as he used his hands to type. A week had passed since New Year's, and the reality of his upcoming trial was starting to set in. So far, the case was going absolutely swimmingly. He had been conferring with the U.S. Attorney for his district regularly, and everyone agreed that this was a slam-dunk case. They had a total of fourteen victims with fourteen videotapes identifying exactly what had been done to them. All of the bodies had been recovered, and they all had matching injuries and matching DNA evidence. Each tape showed the faces of at least three of the four defendants. The icing on the cake was that Sam Evans had identified all four defendants from a line up without hesitation.

"How many times in your career do you ever get a case where the evidence is so good that your star witness doesn't even need to testify?" Nolan wondered.

The evidence in this case was so solid, in fact, that the U.S. Attorney was essentially giving him free reign to run this trial himself. Of course, the U.S. Attorney still had to be conferred with on any major issues, especially ones that could turn political or attract the press, but he would be arguing the entire case himself. And he knew that when he got a unanimous verdict for all fourteen victims, this case was going to make his name. National press would be all over this. He'd have his choice of New York defense firms, if he ever wanted it.

After sorting through some spam mail, Nolan checked the docket. Since this was the biggest murder case ever tried in the Southern District of Indiana, Nolan had been given a free pass on all his other cases. Little things like narcotics prosecutions and deportation hearings had been schlepped off to less senior, less fortunate AUSA's. His schedule had been completely cleared to make way for this behemoth of a trial.

Nolan squinted when his eyes passed over a small gavel icon on the docket for his case. That little gavel appeared next to any undecided item on the docket, items that were pending the judge's ruling. They were usually indicators of trouble in the water. If there was a gavel and it wasn't something that he submitted, that meant the defense had submitted something to the court, and that something could be anything.

Motion to exclude.

"What?" Nolan's mind started to race, his pulse quickening a bit. "Exclude what?"

He clicked on the link, his eyes scanning quickly through the dense legalese that was a native tongue to him. He sat back in his chair.

"He can't possibly be serious."

Nolan reached for the phone, his anxious hand knocking it off the receiver. He recovered it from the floor and punched in the familiar extension.

"Sally. It's Nolan. Clear his schedule, I'm coming up."

Nolan paced as his boss read slowly through the motion. It was only two pages long, but the man had been reading it over and over again for twenty minutes, his steady eyes searching for some hole, some flaw in the logic. Nolan knew there was none. The U.S. Attorney held his back stiff in his chair, finally closing the court document. He didn't look angry or panicked; only calm authority was apparent in his face, and Nolan silently thanked him for that. As for himself, he wouldn't say he was panicking, but his stomach was definitely turning somersaults.

"We're going to lose on this motion, aren't we," he stated to his boss. It wasn't really a question.

"Yes."

"What do we do?"

"Well," he started, running a finger over his chin. "Go commandeer one of our interns. Maybe there's some case somewhere with a good faith provision that can get us out of this."

Nolan nodded. It was doubtful. Even if there was some deeply buried federal case to be found in the dredges of Westlaw, no judge was going to set a precedent like that. A mistake had been made, and they were going to pay for it.

"Nolan?"

His eyes rose up to the face of the U.S. Attorney from where they had been examining his shoes.

"Get in your car and start heading to Ohio. I'll call Dwight Evans personally and tell him you're on your way."

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Quinn and Sam sat on a park bench, peering out over the two little well-bundled blondes chasing each other back and forth across the snow-packed field. Stevie was big enough to fit in one of Kurt's old ski jackets from a few years back, and Stacy had received a generous donation from the Berry's. It was a pink, puffy, overstuffed ski jacket with ridiculous pink tassels. The papas Berry had been hesitant to give it away. To them, it was a priceless treasure from when Rachel was Stacy's age. But Rachel had insisted. No matter what anyone else said about her, and no matter how often she whined about solos, deep down, Quinn knew that Rachel Berry was not selfish. Not where it counted, anyway.

Sam held Quinn's small hands between his own, rubbing them to keep her warm. His knee brushed against hers, and he offered her a gentle smile. She returned it with one of her own.

Surprisingly, the conversation between them when they had returned to her home on New Year's Eve had not been awkward. As had become their routine since Quinn first found Sam whimpering alone in the basement bedroom, Quinn crawled into bed next to him, wrapping an arm snuggly across his bare torso and nestling her face into the crook of his neck. He tensed slightly. They were silent through the drive home, and he was clearly expecting her to be furious with him. She wasn't, though. She glanced up to find him gazing down on her with those wounded puppy eyes. She knew he didn't mean to do it. He wasn't one to pout just to melt her and win her forgiveness when he had actually done something wrong. But he couldn't help it; that look came over him whenever he was genuinely concerned.

He looked like a sad, sorry puppy that had been scolded by a beloved master, and it made her smile to know that he cared that much. She leaned up to press a kiss to the tip of his nose and brushed strands of hair away from his brow. His eyes closed, and he released a sigh, tipping his face into her hand.

"I'm so sorry Quinn," he whispered, eyes still closed, afraid to face her.

"Was it a flashback?"

Sam nodded, eyes squeezing tightly shut.

"What caused it?" she asked gently. His eyes eased open. His dad was right, Sam Evans would never be able to lie. Every single emotion he carried in his soul was on display for the world right there in his eyes.

"I just, I love you Quinn."

"I know," she smiled, trying to reassure him.

"I love you, and I want us to be together forever. I never want to hurt you, _ever_ Quinn. I never meant to hurt you. Please. You have to believe that. I could just die I feel so terrible."

She smiled gently, running a hand through his hair as he dipped his chin to his chest in shame.

"I'm not hurt, Sam. That's kinda just how these things work. It stings a little at first. We just have to go slow."

"I just never want you to feel like that Quinn."

"Sam, look at me." She slipped her hands over his face, one on each side, turning him to face her. She pulled him down to rest her forehead against his, looking deeply into the oceans of worry present in his blue-green eyes. They were so close that when he blinked, his lashes tickled her skin.

"You will never, _never_ make me feel that way."

Sam sighed with relief and leaned in to kiss her. He pulled her close, and she melted against him. Feeling his strong arms protecting her, Quinn allowed herself to drift off into sleep, happy, warm, and loved. She felt his nose nuzzled into her hair and closed her eyes, asleep.

Quinn gave his hand a gentle squeeze. Stevie had just shoved a handful of snow down the back of Stacy's pants, and the little girl was wailing, possibly on the verge of tears.

"You better go get them," Quinn chuckled.

Sam leaned in and pressed a kiss to her cold cheek. His nose felt like ice. He sprinted off after the two children, easily catching up to them with his much longer legs, and wrapped them in a giant hug, tackling them to the ground. Stevie protested and flailed wildly as Sam pinned him to the ground and rubbed snow into his hair.

"That's what you get for being mean to your sister!"

Quinn actually laughed out loud when the little girl stuck out her tongue and did a small victory dance behind Sam's back. When the older boy turned around, she immediately stopped and offered a very sweet, "Thank you Sammmmmmy," in her sing-song voice.

If she was being completely honest, Quinn was actually happy that things hadn't gone further than they did. At the time, she really wanted it. She wanted to feel that connection with him, after all they'd been through together. She wasn't thrilled that it ended with Sam sprinting out of the room with his clothes on backwards, but it was the right decision, even if neither of them had been sober enough to make it on their own. Her first time—well, her technical first time, since she didn't really consider it her emotional first time—had been born out of a storm of alcohol and insecurity. It ended up producing her little miracle, so she could never say with her whole heart that it was a mistake, but she wanted her next first time to be perfect. She wanted it to be born out of love. She wanted to be able to look into his eyes as their bodies connected for the first time and see in them that she was adored. And that night, it just wasn't possible. All that they could offer each other that night was sloppy, inexperienced, alcohol-driven, animalistic sex. They could use each other to get off. But that's what she had with Puck, and her relationship with Sam was worth so much more than that.

Quinn smiled as she saw Sam returning with the two children. Stacy was perched securely on his hip, and Stevie, thoroughly defeated, held Sam's hand and allowed his big brother to lead him along. Quinn couldn't help but think that this is what the picture of her family would look like someday. Not anytime soon . . . she had big plans for her life. But a perfectly handsome husband and two beautiful children? She could definitely picture it someday.

Having achieved their goal of exhausting the children before dinner, Sam and Quinn walked Stevie and Stacy back the few blocks to the motel room. Stacy refused to get down, so Sam carried her the entire way home in his arms. Stevie, on the other hand, was more than happy to hold Quinn's hand and follow along. When they got back to the room, Sam deposited Stacy on the floor and squatted down to brush the snow off their jackets. He helped them out of their coats and gave each a kiss on the tops of their heads before shooing them off to the bathroom to get dried off.

When he looked up, the smile dropped off of his face. His dad was sitting on a box around the tray table with the prosecutor man, Mr. Walker. Mr. Walker sat slouched, and his suit was rumpled. His eyes looked weary, like maybe he had stayed up too late last night. Sam's eyes scanned back and forth between his father and the prosecutor. His father didn't look much better. He was rubbing his hands up and down the lengths of his jean-clad thighs. When he gripped his knees, he almost looked like he was trying to hold himself steady.

"What's going on?" Sam asked, confused.

"Sam," his father commanded sternly. "Sit down."


	24. Chapter 24

**Wow, sorry it took me OBSCENELY long to write a little chapter. I apologize! Please be warned that I have a busy week coming up, and the upcoming chapters are pretty serious, so I don't want to rush through them. I'll still update about once a week, but I'm not sure I can push them out any faster than that at the moment. Thanks for all your wonderful reviews, they're all appreciated! Enjoy, and keep tuned for more!**

Chapter 24

Sam ran a shaking hand through his hair. He was seated on the corner of the motel room bed, back slumped, feet planted firmly on the floor to ground him. He hadn't asked anyone for a few minutes to think, but it must have seemed obvious that he needed them, because as soon as Mr. Walker finished explaining, the room fell silent. He could feel eyes on him—his father's and the prosecutor's. Without being asked, Quinn had bundled the children back into their winter coats and led them out of the cramped room. The two groaned, complaining that they were tired and hungry and had just started warming up from the hours they spent outside playing. When Quinn promised them hot chocolate and cookies at the Lima Bean, though, the protests abruptly stopped. It was a treat they hadn't enjoyed in a while and couldn't be sure if they'd ever get again.

After the door had closed behind Quinn and the children, Sam looked back to his father and the prosecutor, who were looking at each other. Neither one seemed to want to be the first to speak.

"What's going on?" Sam asked, his voice steady, but his mind begging one of them to break whatever news they were harboring to him.

Mr. Walker sighed, nodding briefly to Sam's dad, taking the responsibility upon himself.

"Sam, there's been a mistake. We're not sure how it happened—either the Lima detectives, or some state court clerk back in Ohio, hell, it could've even been the FBI, though I hope not—anyway, someone screwed up, and it's pretty serious."

Immediately, Sam's head felt like it was swimming. What was he talking about? What kind of mistake? Did they escape? Would they come find him? Tyler did say he would kill him. "Oh God, they're going to kill me." Mr. Walker was rubbing the skin covering the knuckles of one hand with the fingers of the other. His hands were dry and stiff and bone white. He exhaled a long breath before continuing.

"When the FBI and the detectives raided the house your attackers were operating out of, they collected a laptop computer into evidence. They brought the computer back to the lab, where the tech experts were able to crack into its storage and find the file where they kept all the videos they've ever distributed."

"As it turns out, the police had a warrant to search the house, and they can collect whatever evidence they find that's related to the claim named in the warrant, but unfortunately, that's very different than a warrant to actually search through the internal contents of the computer. The computer itself was in plain sight, but the materials found on the hard drive took some digging. If the screen had been opened to some of the materials when the officers scanned the room, maybe that would be a different story, but that wasn't the case here."

"Defense counsel filed a motion to exclude any and all evidence found on that laptop, and he's going to win. We needed a separate warrant from a judge to search that computer for digital evidence, and we didn't have one. I'm going to argue before the court that we should get to keep that evidence, but I'm 99% positive that the court is going to throw it out."

Sam eyed his father warily. He didn't understand what was happening, but his father seemed dejected. His eyes flickered back and forth from Sam's face to the wall, hoping to catch the precise moment of his son's reaction while having a quick escape route from the pain he expected to find there. But Sam was empty. He didn't understand, and he withheld judgment until it became clearer to him what the hell was going on.

"All thirteen videos from the other victims are out."

Oh.

"Without that evidence, the only evidence connecting all of the cases is the DNA. That's very strong, and I think it's strong enough to win on all the charges, but we have to put in some evidence actually telling the story of what happened to you and the other victims. I'm so sorry, Sam, but I'm going to have to play clips from your video for the jury. I'll do my absolute best to cut them as short as possible, but there's no way around it, they're going to have to see what happened to you."

"Now that we're showing your video, and it's the only one, the defense is going to want to question you. I'll call you first so that we can get a word in before he does. I'll put you on the stand to authenticate the video, and then I'll just ask you a few questions so the jury can hear you speak and get to know you a bit before the defense comes up."

"When he questions you, there's no way around it, he's going to try to tear you down. We can't know for sure what his precise strategy is going to be, but he's going to try to make you look like a liar, a drunk, a teenage floozy . . . anything he can to plant just a seed of doubt in the jury's mind. Our job is to make you look honest and genuine. That will come naturally to you, but he's going to try to rile you up, get you to lash out so the jury sees something in you other than a sweet, innocent kid. If you're able to stay calm up there, great. If you start to tear up or get anxious, that's ok too. But it's really important that you don't let him get you angry. He's going to say some cruel, offensive things about you. I wish I could protect you from that, but I can't. All I can do is get you prepared as much as possible."

Sam's hands instinctively ran through his hair, gently twisting and tugging at the short blond strands. His elbows rested on his knees, and he stared down at the floor, tracing the revolting, vomit-like pattern of the carpet with his eyes. He felt weightless, like he was about to fall.

One time when Sam was about Stevie's age, his parents had taken them to a carnival on a lake. Always a little daredevil, Sam had begged his parents to let him try a giant bungee swing that launched its victims out over the water. He had acted brave with his two feet on the ground, and his mom and dad finally conceded. His small body shook as the ride operator strapped him into the harness, pulling the straps tight to hold his child's frame safely in place. The mechanically operated cable pulled him backwards, up and up, higher and higher until he was suspended twenty stories above the earth. He had to pull a ripcord to release the hold on his harness and drop him swinging out over the water. He held his eyes tightly shut, heart racing. His stomach felt small and tight, pulled high into his rib cage. He felt the wind sweeping across his face, and finally, he was able to pull the cord. For the split second before he was swinging and flying like a bird, he felt sickeningly weightless. Like time was suspended and he was tipping over into a free fall for an eternity.

That's how he felt now, and that was the thought running through Sam's mind as he tried to sort one unidentifiable emotion from another. He'd give anything to be there instead of here.

The first feeling he was able to identify coursing through him was rage. Why were they doing this to him again? He was trying so hard to make this all go away, to make the nightmares and the flashbacks and the panic attacks stop. He was trying so hard for himself and everyone around him. It was a daily struggle. He couldn't sleep, often he couldn't eat, and he never knew when something stupid like Kurt brushing his arm, or Quinn telling him she loved him, or his baby sister calling him Sammy would send him spiraling into a pit of self-destructive anxiety. Now they were going to make him live it all again. He was going to have to sit there and watch a courtroom full of people watch his innocence being destroyed. He wondered if they would get sick or cry the way he had. He wondered if it would hurt just as bad the second time as it did the first, or if he would be able to watch it with a cold distance. All because of some stupid procedural error. Some stupid mistake. Why?

As he envisioned himself on the witness stand, surveying the faces of the jurors and onlookers as they watched him suffer, his anger melted into a profound sadness. People would know now. But it was way more than that. They wouldn't just know in a general sense what physically happened; they would be able to see every grimace of pain twist his lips and every flash of terror pass over his eyes. His parents, Quinn, and now Kurt knew the details of what happened, but so far, he'd been able to spare everyone the heartbreak of actually experiencing it with him. Quinn and his dad had seen the worst of it. His dad had clutched at him, hopelessly trying to get him to stop screaming and flailing when he first came hope, and when he woke up, he could see the fear and desperation in his dad's eyes. On nights when he still woke up with nightmares, Quinn would wind herself into his arms, and he would wake up to find himself gripping and contorting her small body. But she never said a word. Now they would all have to see.

He hated the idea of his mom watching that video. He knew she would. He knew she and his dad would want to be there in the courtroom with him because they wouldn't want him to have to go through it alone. But he couldn't stand the thought of her eyes crinkling up and filling with tears when she saw him like that. He had made her cry before. He had appendicitis when he was younger, and even though the doctor had assured her that the procedure was simple and he would be fine, she had still wept over him, kissing his face and calling him her baby. This was so much worse. A mother shouldn't have to see these things.

"Sam?" He looked up. It was Mr. Walker. Apparently he had been silent for minutes.

"I know it's not much consolation, but I'm going to submit a motion to the court to make this a closed trial. Court proceedings are almost always public, and there's a presumption against closing them, but we've got a lot going for us here. I think because you're a minor and a rape victim, and especially because of how . . . graphic the evidence is . . . well I think the judge might be sympathetic and grant our motion."

"What does that mean?" Sam asked.

"It means that no one can come watch the trial. Your mom and dad, your girlfriend, whoever you want to be there can be there, and the defendants can bring family or friends for support if they want them. But no one can come watch the trial just out of interest. And most importantly, it would mean no press. They can wait outside on the courthouse steps, and they'll probably ask us questions when we walk out, but you just let me handle that. If we win on the motion, they won't be able to see the video. And the courtroom won't be packed when you testify, just your mom and dad, me, the judge, the court reporter, and them."

"That would be really nice."

"Sam, I'm so sorry about all this. I wish I could give you a better explanation than someone made a mistake, but that's all there is to it. I'm so sorry we have to put you through all this again." Mr. Walker looked like he was about to cry, or he had been crying, one of the two.

Sam took a deep breath. He'd had enough of people apologizing to him. He knew the prosecutor meant what he said, and he knew he was probably torn up inside about it. But honestly, he was tired of people looking at him like he was a fragile piece of glass that would shatter if anyone so much as looked at him the wrong way. Before this whole thing happened, everyone thought of Sam as strong. He never looked shaken, he never cried, and he was rarely if ever caught without a giant, playful smile on his face. His friends back in Tennessee knew him as the sweet, carefree guy who was the rock of their social circle. They came to him to vent without being judged, for advice, or for a shoulder to cry on. Now, he felt like everyone was trying to put on a brave face for him. His parents did it, Quinn did it, even his friends at school would stop bickering and smile stupidly when he walked in the room. He was sick of it. He knew deep down that he was strong, stronger now even than he had ever been before. He had managed to escape death, and he wouldn't allow them to make him a victim for any longer than they had in that damp basement. They needed him to do this. Mr. Walker needed him to do this. The families of the thirteen other victims needed him.

"It's ok Mr. Walker," Sam stated. "Don't feel bad. I can do it."


	25. Chapter 25

**Phew! That was a long one! For those of you who are still sticking this story out with me, I hope you like this chapter. I'm not sure I'd call it a Valentine's Day present, as it's more dramatic than romantic, but there are little romantic pieces. I hope you love it! PS I wanted to post it before it got too late, so I'll read for typos and replace anything that's awful.**

Chapter 25

Straining to look in the rear view mirror, Quinn rearranged the pale yellow scarf tied around her neck. As much as she fussed with the silky fabric, she just could not get it to look as if it had been whimsically tossed in place, like it looked on the girl in the magazine. Instead, it looked proper, draped neatly over the stiff fabric of her navy dress. She gave it another small tug, but the knot slipped and the scarf slipped into a pile on her lap. She huffed, tears brimming in her eyes, sticking in her delicately painted eyelashes.

Quinn looked down into her lap as long, warm fingers wrapped around her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. Sam. Sitting next to her in the back seat of her car, which she had offered Mr. and Mrs. Evans for the long drive, Sam gave her a small, reassuring smile. Quinn returned the smile as best she could, though a few mascara-blackened tears glided down her cheeks. This was too much for her. She had been so strong, too strong, trying to make it better for Sam. She knew that he had nothing—no access to therapy, no stable home, no one to step in for him and fulfill his family responsibilities of working part time to pay the rent and caring for the children—so she had resolved herself to be his constant. And she had been. She had been the one steady rock in his life while he tried to wade through the rapids of recovery. She held him at night when his strong body was shaking like a leaf. She took care of his siblings when he ran his pizza route. And she never let him see her sad, or scared, or frustrated. Those were emotions that occasionally rose to the surface when she was in the privacy of her own bathroom, staring at the tired eyes of her reflection in the mirror, but she never let him see it. Because if she couldn't be strong, how was he supposed to be strong? That's what she kept telling herself.

But this was too much. She was supposed to go to this trial and look into the faces of four men who she truly believed were evil. They raped and killed thirteen boys, took them away from their families forever. They terrorized the sweetest, gentlest soul on this planet, damaged him for life. And she was supposed to sit in a room, a few feet away from them and watch as men in suits and ties went through the motions of a normal, civilized procedure? Quinn wasn't a superstitious girl, but she was devout in her faith, and the idea of being in the same room with what she considered to be the devil's earthly incarnates was both terrifying and enraging.

Her eyes scanned over the young man sitting next to her, her boyfriend. Somehow, in the last few weeks leading up to this trial, Sam seemed to get older. It wasn't so much a physical change, though he looked undeniably handsome in her older brother's well-fitting gray suit. Even the suit couldn't disguise the silly smile, the hair brushing into his eyes, and the ever so slight bit of baby pudge in his cheeks. But he held himself straighter. His hands no longer shook, his shoulders no longer slumped, his eyes no longer darted. Sam didn't seem afraid of the world anymore, and didn't panic as much when anyone tried to speak to him or touched him.

She watched as he and Kurt began to develop a mature friendship. Kurt had backed down from his determination of winning Sam as a boyfriend, and the two had begun relationship based on honesty and trust. When Kurt knew Sam was having a flashback or a panic attack, Sam didn't lie about it and told Kurt in a few words how he was really feeling, and when Kurt was feeling despondent at being bullied or the lack of love in his life, he knew he had a non-judgmental ear in Sam. His relationships with the other members of New Directions were taking a similar turn. He was quiet and didn't inject himself into their bickering and gossiping, but they could always count on him for a warm, reassuring smile when they needed one.

The biggest change Quinn noticed, though, was in his eyes. They were warm as they always had been, but steady and calm. She missed the child's joy and wonder that had always lit his eyes; they were gone now. But not gone in a way that made her feel his spirit had been crushed, gone in a way that showed he had grown up. That old way he had of looking at things like he was seeing them for there very first time had slipped away, and in its place was a sense that he had seen the world before and knew what it really looked like. Not sad or frightened, just knowing. He looked at Stevie and Stacy with the love and concern of a parent, and at Quinn with the passion and respect of a cherished friend and lover. His eyes revealed the soul of a young man who understood his responsibilities and accepted them without complaint. "Resolved. Maybe that's it," Quinn thought. "Yes, he's resolved."

Concerned, Sam leaned over and lightly pressed his full, warm lips to her cheek, brushing away the stray tears. A gentle smile crept over Quinn's lips. She didn't care what anyone said about his intelligence. She would defend him to the death against anyone who called him stupid because she knew. She knew that no matter how difficult dyslexia made it for Sam to understand words, he understood people. He had a sixth sense for knowing what people thought, how they felt, and when they needed him. He never missed a blush on her cheeks, or a momentary flash of fear in her eyes . . . he knew her. And that was worth more to her than his ability to get straight A's.

"We're going to be ok, Quinn," Sam offered with his small, crooked smile.

She closed her eyes and leaned her forehead into his neck. She inhaled his familiar scent of soap and warmth.

"I know Sam," she breathed.

In the rear view mirror, two sets of eyes stole a glance as Quinn settled against Sam's shoulder and he smoothed her hair. Dwight and Mary Evans glanced at each other with mirth in their eyes. This girl was a blessing, and since Sam's eyes could never lie, they knew their son was deeply, painfully in love.

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"So you didn't actually see anything happen then, did you?"

"Well, no, like I just told you, he was already like that when I found him there."

"So you found him like that."

"Yes."

"So you saw nothing."

"I just told you what I saw."

"But you didn't actually see the attack, correct?"

"No!"

Nolan Walker rested his forehead in his hand, elbow planted firmly on his counsel table. He watched warily as his opponent, one of the Midwest's best criminal defense attorneys, tried to break down poor Taylor Jordan. It was a typical strategy that Nolan had seen hundreds of times, from the most high-powered defense attorneys in the country to the lowest paid public defenders. When the evidence didn't really lean your way, the trick was to make the government's witnesses look like liars. You ask them the same question twenty times to frustrate them, you try to confuse them as much as possible, and most importantly, you speak loudly, very loudly, to emphasize for the jury whatever it is the witness isn't really saying, but you'd like the jury to hear anyway.

The key part, which this attorney seemed to be missing, is that you only do this to the really central witnesses. You try to make the victim look like a liar, or make the eyewitness look like a drunk or an idiot. You don't put the weatherman on the stand and cross-examine him to death about whether or not the sky is blue. It makes you look argumentative, like you're grasping at straws, and it frustrates the jury. You never want to make the jury think that you think they're stupid. So when the defense attorney kept hammering away at Taylor Jordan about what it is he actually "saw" when he found Sam Evans on the side of the road, Nolan instinctively looked over to the jury to see if he could spot any signs of annoyance.

Taylor was obviously becoming infuriated. Nolan had called him as a rather straightforward get-em-on-get-em-off witness. He had asked simple, fact-driven questions. What were you doing that night? Driving my girlfriend home from work. What did you see? Something lying on the side of the road. What did you do? Pulled over to check. What did you find? A boy, thought he was dead. That boy? Yes, the blond boy there in the first row. But he wasn't dead? No, barely breathing, bleeding badly and delirious, but not dead. Where was the bleeding coming from? Two wounds, one in his back, one in his stomach. What did you do? Tried to slow the bleeding, tried to keep the kid awake, called for an ambulance. Did the ambulance come? Yes, it did. Was the boy still coherent when the ambulance arrived? No, but apparently he was still alive. Nolan had really only called him to set the scene for the jury, and he sat down, finished with his direct in less than fifteen minutes.

But the cross-examination was taking far longer, closing in on half an hour the last time he checked. The defense kept chipping away at Taylor's patience, asking the same questions over and over again to get him frustrated and make him look agitated. The point he seemed to be trying to drill into the jury was that no one had actually seen how Sam got those horrible injuries Taylor was describing. If no one had seen the attack, then it couldn't be proven beyond a reasonable doubt that it was his clients who caused the injuries. At least that's the approach Nolan assumed he was going for. A less experience prosecutor would feel extremely comfortable with that notion. As soon as the jury saw Sam Evans' tear-streaked face in that video, along with the faces of three of the four defendants, they would know beyond a shadow of a doubt who caused this poor child's injuries. But Nolan was cautious. As obvious as that was to him, it would be just as obvious to his opponent, who didn't earn his name by making arguments that would die before it even really started.

Better to focus on one witness at a time, and make sure he paid attention and got the most out of it. That's what Nolan had learned through years of trial experience. And currently, his witness was struggling to keep his cool. Nolan wasn't worried, though. As agitated as Taylor was, he was sure the jury could put themselves in his shoes. He was a young kid, no more than twenty-five years old, unfamiliar and uncomfortable with the formality of the courtroom and the high authority of the judge. Taylor was a sympathetic character, Nolan thought, and if put in his position, with a defense attorney trying to make them look stupid, the jury would feel just as frustrated as he did.

The defense attorney was equally belligerent with his second witness, Dr. Di. Dr. Di was the surgeon who led the team operating on Sam, and once again, Nolan really only called him to set up the more crucial evidence for the jury. He wanted the jury to understand the extent of Sam's injuries, how close he had really come to dying. He also needed to establish the case for the other thirteen victims. Without the other video evidence, what he would have to do to win this case would be to establish Sam's case fully as the model, then link in the other boys through the DNA evidence and the matching injuries. He would not be able to actually prove what happened to them, but he could make it blatantly obvious to the jury that whoever attacked Sam Evans also attacked the other boys.

The doctor was far more poised that Taylor Jordan, clearly more comfortable with authority. He had probably even been in court before, though almost certainly not for a case of this magnitude. The defense was attempting the same tactic with him that he had used to so thoroughly frustrate Taylor Jordan.

"So doctor, correct me if I'm wrong, but you don't really know what happened to Sam Evans, do you?"

"Well, physically, yes, we do know what happened to him."

"You know what caused his injuries?"

"We do, yes. We know he was shot, and we know that he was beaten and tortured. His surface injuries were consistent with lashes from a metal belt buckle and strangulation with a long, thin cable, as I previously mentioned. We know he was forcibly raped, and we know that he was stabbed twice by a blade at least five inches long."

"But that's not really what I asked you, is it doctor?"

"Isn't it?"

"No. I believe I asked you if you, personally, with your own eyes, know how Sam Evans received those injuries."

"You mean did I see the attack?"

"That's right."

"No, of course not."

"Then you don't really know what happened, do you?"

"I have a very strong sense of what happened, Mr. Claydis."

"You don't know who did this, do you doctor?"

"We found multiple semen samples on the victim's body consistent—"

"Dr. Di, I am asking you if you, with your own eyes, saw who did this to Sam Evans."

"Of course not."

"Then anything you can tell this jury about what happened, outside of what you know as a medical professional, it's really just guessing, isn't it?"

"I like to think I do more than guess."

"You would like to think that, wouldn't you," the defense attorney smirked. "No further questions."

Nolan sighed. He was going to be in for a long day. A long week for that matter. As he proceeded through his witness list, it was becoming more an more obvious what was happening here. The defense was trying to intimidate him. More importantly than that, he was trying to intimidate Sam. He was putting so much pressure on witnesses that really had very little to do with the case so that Nolan would know that he fully intended to destroy Sam on the stand. He was clearly hoping that if he was hostile enough to the other witnesses, he would scare Sam so much that Nolan would practically be a criminal himself to put the boy on the stand. Guilt tripping. That's what it was. Without a star witness to tell his version of the story, there were a number of plausible theories that could explain away the video. He was sending a warning sign, and if he was being completely honest, Nolan would have to admit that, even if only a little bit, it was working.

His opponent knew how badly Nolan had taken the loss of the evidentiary hearing. He knew that he hadn't intended to put Sam on the stand and make him relive the attack. Hell, he knew what a nice boy Sam was. He knew all this, and he was using it against Nolan. He was using his human affections and sympathy for the boy to make him question whether or not to put him on the stand like sending a lamb for slaughter. If it were just a matter of winning or losing, the competitor in Nolan would tell him to go to hell, and he would meet his challenge head on. He wasn't afraid of the battle. But it wasn't just a case he would be winning or losing, it was the rest of this kid's life that was on the line. And yes, if it made him a bad prosecutor but a decent human being, Nolan was questioning whether the emotional harm Sam would undoubtedly sustain was worth the risk that they might not win the case. He would have to decide soon, because if Sam didn't take the stand, he would have to come up with a different strategy, and quickly.

During the lunch break, he decided to check on his star witness to see how he was responding to the defense attorney's game playing. He was sitting with his family and his girlfriend on the benches lining the courthouse's floor to ceiling windows. The four blondes really did look the part of the perfect, middle class American family, except for the carefully folded half peanut butter sandwiches they were all nibbling at. Mrs. Evans had stowed them away in her purse and distributed them during the lunch break, one per person.

"Shit," Nolan thought, heartbroken. "These people are so poor they can't even afford to eat."

He knew they had lost their house. He had seen first-hand the grime encrusted motel room that they scrubbed clean, decorated with children's drawings, and were now calling home. But he had never really considered the fact that it could possibly be that bad. He knew what homeless people looked like, and the Evans family just didn't look the part. They were too clean, too soft spoken, too polite, too kind. "Good people don't deserve this," he thought sadly. Digging around in his pocket, Nolan found two crumpled twenty dollar bills. As a government attorney, he wasn't making nearly the money his peers in private firms made, and he usually packed his own lunch from home. But he couldn't turn off human emotion, and he couldn't turn away from the people for whom he was supposed to be advocating.

"Hey there!" He said with a bright smile that he had forced to mask his sad eyes. "Let's head over to the cafeteria and grab some lunch on me. We need to talk about the rest of the day."

Dwight turned briefly to his wife, and a look was passed between them.

"Oh no, we couldn't," he said, holding his hands up.

Nolan's gaze shifted to Sam. His eyes were averted, and he was chewing at the corner of his lip, the white bread shifting awkwardly from one hand to another. He wondered if this was his day every day, if he ever ate properly.

"Please," Nolan stated, letting the smile fade. There was no point trying to act like he didn't know. "It's going be a long day. You'll need it."

Another look was passed between Dwight and Mary Evans, and their eyes lowered briefly to the floor, the shame apparent.

"Thank you," Dwight said, standing and stuffing his hands into the pockets of his slightly too loose slacks.

Nolan led them through the line at the courthouse cafeteria, and when they had all ordered, they sat down around a large circular table. Quinn had ordered for herself, choosing a salad and chips, but Dwight ordered for himself, his wife, and his son, choosing sandwiches that came to no more than three dollars apiece. Even in a time of great need, they still refused to be anything but polite. After they had all taken a few bites, Nolan started the conversation, nervous about gauging Sam's reactions.

"So, Sam," he started. "How do you feel things are going so far?"

Sam looked up at him from the chicken salad sandwich he had been eating extremely slowly with incredible precision. He looked more than a bit confused.

"Good, I think. I mean, I don't know? I don't understand these things. This is my first time. Shouldn't we be asking you how it's going?"

Nolan chuckled. The kid had a point. Back when he had first met the Evans family, Dwight had taken him aside and quietly explained to him that Sam had dyslexia and couldn't read very quickly on his own. He had reassured Nolan that his son could, in fact, read, but it took him longer than normal kids and it required quite a bit of patience. Nolan hadn't really known what to expect. He had never known anyone with dyslexia. He had expected Sam to be borderline mentally retarded, and prepared himself to have to coach a child witness through the rigors of examination. But as it turned out, Sam was very keen and quick-witted. What he lacked in his ability to read, he made up for in perception and memory. Nolan had no trouble whatsoever preparing him for trial.

"Well, Sam, what I'm really getting at is that I believe the defense counsel is trying to intimidate us. He's hammering those witnesses to send a warning sign to me that he's going to be tough on you, so that I won't put you on the stand. How do you feel about that?"

"Oh. Well I mean, I'm really nervous, but you already told me he was going to be like that."

"How do you feel about testifying?"

Sam paused for a moment, quietly chewing a bite of his sandwich. "I have to, don't I?"

"Well, uhh. It would be extremely helpful, yes. But Sam, listen, you don't _have_ to do anything. It would be very difficult, I won't lie to you, but if you can't do it, we'll find another way."

"You said before that they have the right to call me as a witness, and that you couldn't stop them."

"Yes, that's true, they do," Nolan added, surprised that Sam had remembered a legal technicality out of the emotional conversation they had had around the folding tray table they called a dinner table. "But it really looks to me like he doesn't want you on the stand. That's why he's trying to scare you. So I'm giving you my best educated guess that if I don't put you up there, you won't have to testify."

Sam chewed for a few moments, thinking. His girlfriend, Quinn, was by his side, holding herself perfectly upright and still. She looked for all the world like she wanted to launch herself at him, wrap her arms around him, and protect him from the rest of the world. The dainty little thing looked like she would tear limb from limb anyone who tried to hurt him. But she held herself back, hands tightly folded in her lap, letting him make the decision for himself. Nolan smiled at the thought. Teenage love.

"Well, I don't know anything about any of this," Sam prefaced, his brow knotted in thought, "But if you need me to do it, I can do it. I'm nervous, but I'm not really afraid."

Nolan wanted to leap from his chair and throw a fist in the air. He wanted to send a giant "Fuck you" express mail to the defense attorney. "That's the spirit Sam!" he felt like shouting. "And that's what you get for trying to fuck with my witness!" But he did none of this. Instead, he remained quietly seated, offering a reassuring smile.

"Well Sam, I certainly appreciate that attitude and your effort. Remember though, I'm on your side, so if at any time during the questioning you feel like you need to stop, just let me know and I'll ask for a recess, ok?"

Sam nodded with a smile and looked quickly back down at his tray. The kid was clearly far more interested in the food than anything Nolan could possibly say. And that was fine. Reinvigorated, Nolan excused himself and left Quinn and the Evans to finish their lunches while he reviewed his notes for trial.

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Sam sat on the end of the first row so that when Mr. Walker called him in a few minutes, he wouldn't have to worry about tripping over anyone to get to the witness stand. He was nervous enough as it was, and he worried that his wobbling legs wouldn't support him on the short walk across the room and up the few steps to the stand. The atmosphere in the courtroom was heavy. Mr. Walker had won his motion to close the trial off from the public, so only a few people besides his mom and dad and Quinn populated the rows of unfilled benches. Johnny's mother, Tyler's aunt, had shown up to support them, and apparently Don had a girlfriend at one point with whom he'd had two kids. The kids couldn't be older than two and four, and they bounced around the aisles oblivious to what was going on before them. It baffled Sam that a man who had been so violent towards him, and towards so many others, could have a girlfriend and children of his own. Didn't he ever think of them when he . . . when he . . .

That was beside the point. Everyone knew what was coming. The air was heavy, and the room was so silent that Sam could hear the four defendants breathing.

"All rise for the jury," the court clerk called, leading the twelve members of the jury to their places in the jury box. Sam stood stiffly, Quinn rising behind him and clasping his right hand. When they sat down, Mr. Walker remained standing behind his table.

"Your Honor, the United States calls Samuel Evans."

Quinn gave his hand a small squeeze before nudging him out towards the aisle. He managed to make it to the witness stand without incident, and when the court clerk swore him in, he said "I do" without faltering. When he sat down, he gripped his hands together in his lap to keep them from fidgeting with his suit jacket. He wished again that he could have worn jeans, but his mom and dad, Quinn, and Mr. Walker had all said absolutely not. He glanced over to the defendants' table. They were wearing suits too. Tyler stared him directly in the eye. Fuck. Stop looking at him. Fuck.

"May I approach the witness your Honor?" The judge nodded and Mr. Walker slipped out from behind his table and stood directly in front of Sam, blocking his line of vision. Sam snapped back to attention.

"Sam . . . You go by Sam right?"

"Yes, sir."

"Sam, I know this is going to be difficult for you, but we're going to try to walk through everything that happened those few days back in November, ok?"

"Ok."

"Now, can you tell me how this all started?"

"I was going for a run after football practice. I usually run a few miles after practice, around campus and down back roads. They pulled over and asked me for directions."

"Now, hang on a second there. Who's they?"

"The defendants." Sam had been well coached not to refer to them by their first names. Mr. Walker hadn't wanted it to seem like they were anything but pure strangers.

"Can you point them out for me Sam?"

"At the table, there." Sam pointed.

"May the record show the witness identified the four defendants?"

"It shall," the judge answered.

"Ok, Sam. So they asked you for directions. Tell me what happened next."

"All of the sudden there was a gun in my face and the defendant, Tyler Hightower, told me that I should get in the back of the car. It was an SUV. I panicked and tried to run for the woods. That's when he shot me in the leg."

"Ok Sam, I want you to look at this video. You've had a chance to look at this video right?"

"Yes, sir."

"And it's you in the video?"

"Yes, sir."

"And what exactly is this video?"

Sam looked down at his hands in his lap. He was gripping them so hard that they were turning bright white. "They, um, they filmed everything that happened and then they edited it together and sold it."

Mr. Walker queued up the video on a giant monitor in the courtroom. Sam had seen this scene already, and he was prepared for it. It was the very first clip in the edited copy of their film, in which he was seen giving Tyler directions through the window, then his face slowly changing from a smile to confusion to fear. He could see the terror in his own eyes as he made the instinctive decision to flee for the woods. The jury gasped as the bullet tore through his left hamstring, catapulting him to the asphalt. He stood again, tried to run, when Don and Tyler physically carried him, kicking and flailing, and threw him into the back of the SUV. This scene was tolerable. It looked just like a scene in a movie, and Sam had seen them all before. It seemed normal even though this time, he knew he was starring in the lead role, and it was his real life. Mr. Walker paused the tape.

"Is that what you remember happening Sam?"

"Yes, sir."

"Ok, so now you're in the back of the car, what next?"

"I tried to stop the bleeding by pressing my hands against my leg, one against each bullet hole, but I guess the pain was too much and I passed out."

Slowly and carefully, Mr. Walker led Sam through the details of the rest of the night leading up to the first assault. He recounted waking up in the back of the car and being thrown down the stairs into the dark basement. Trying to run and feeling a heavy body colliding with his back, his nose smashing against the wooden step. The blow to his stomach that brought him to his knees. Taping his hands behind his back. The confusing and sickening moment when they began to undress, and undress him. The moment when he finally realized exactly what was happening. Sam watched as Mr. Walker fiddled with the remote. "This is it, then," he thought. He drew in deep breath through clenched teeth.

"Your Honor, I feel that I need to warn you and the members of the jury that this material is extremely graphic. It will undoubtedly be very disturbing. But, it's the evidence, the _best _evidence, of what happened in this case."

The judge nodded warily. He hadn't seen the video yet, either. "Members of the jury, if you feel like you need to stop at any time, please raise your hand and we will call a brief recess. However, I do ask that you do your very best to view the material, as you will need to consider it in your deliberations." The men and women sitting on the jury nodded dutifully. The case was new to them, and they were still high on the buzz of being selected to the jury of a mass murder trial. They were determined to fulfill their duties. They had no idea what was coming. Mr. Walker looked at Sam, who exhaled and blinked. It wasn't a nod, but it was the closest he could offer.

_Hey everybody, this is Sam. Sam is fifteen, and we found him at football practice outside his high school in Ohio. Say hi to everybody at home, Sammy._

_Sammy, do you want me to . . . _

Sam's eyes slid closed. Those words, that voice. It was all right there in his mind, fresh and new. He wanted to stick his fingers in his ears and sing. Sing something beautiful. A love song for Quinn. Sing anything so he didn't have to hear that horrible, animalistic, strained scream that he knew would be coming out of that screen any moment. And he didn't want to see the look on his face. Didn't want to see his eyes. Didn't want to know what they said, what story they told, what his soul looked like at that very moment. Because he was sure that if he looked, more than his body breaking, he would see his soul breaking. So he kept his eyes closed this time. Because if he couldn't see it, then he didn't have to know it, didn't have to remember.

He knew it was selfish. He knew that every other person in the room—those innocent people on the jury, his parents, beautiful Quinn, even the hairy old judge—they all had to watch it. Their eyes were all glued to the screen like a train wreck. They all had to suffer through this; they weren't allowed to close their eyes and drift away. They had to sit there politely and watch intently and follow court procedure. They couldn't stand up and scream, tear at their hair, and squeeze their eyes shut so tightly that they saw blinking spots of yellow and purple light. So why should he be allowed to close his eyes and drift off, think of anything, anything but what was happening right now? He understood that it was selfish, but he couldn't help it.

When his mind cleared, he could hear the muffled sounds coming from the screen. Faint whimpers and labored grunts filled the courtroom with the tortured soundtrack of his nightmare. Sam knew without looking that he had given up. He wasn't sure how much time had passed since he had first closed his eyes as he introduced himself to the jury via camera, but he could recall from his own recollection approximately what was happening. He had given up, they had broken him, and he knew he was just hanging there, his weight supported by the couch and the men holding him up to use him. He felt the tears beginning to prickle behind his closed eyes.

What caught his attention, though, was the utter silence in the room other than the sounds of his muffled screams. At the beginning of the tape, when his eyes first shut, he could hear the distinctive noises of audience reaction. Sharp gasps of horror and muddled groans fired like bullets against Sam's eardrums. But now everything was silent except for the running film. This oddity was curious. He wanted to open his eyes and see what had happened to everyone, if they had left the room, but if he did, he was afraid that the tears building behind his eyes would spill out. "Be strong," he scolded himself, "Be strong. If you can't be strong, you can't expect them to be." He waited until he was certain that the tears were dried up and it was safe to open his eyes.

Slowly, he allowed his eyes to slide open, blinking in the light of the fuzzy world of swirled paints like a newborn opening his eyes for the first time. His eyes finally focused on the faces around him. On face after face, he found the same expression—pale, still, shocked, unmoving. Two of the women on the jury made no attempt to cover the tears streaming down their cheeks, and many of the others, even the men, were blinking rapidly and brushing at their eyes. One by one, they each looked away or paused to close their eyes and pull in a deep breath, but invariably, they all returned to the horror film playing before them. All of their eyes were wide and glassy, like they were shell-shocked. Sam wondered if they might come out of this whole experience just as traumatized as him.

He scanned over to the defendants' table, where the defense attorney was sitting stiffly, his hand lightly gripping Tyler's upper arm. Sam could tell that the attorney was having a hard time with this as well. Everyone else was allowed to look sad and horrified; in order to do his job, he had to look aloof, like not even this incidence of inhumanity captured on film could phase him. Tyler looked like a caged animal. Like he wanted to tear his claws through the suit he was wearing. His attorney kept whispering to him to keep his eyes down, stop looking at the video, stop scowling at Sam, it made him look guilty. Before, killing his victims was just a matter of getting rid of them; he didn't seem to take any particular pleasure in it. But Sam was certain that now, if there weren't bailiffs standing between the witness stand and the defendants' table, Tyler would kill him and receive great pleasure in doing so.

Sam was afraid to allow his eyes to travel across the aisle to the side of the courtroom where his family was seated. He could tolerate the twisted faces of pain and sadness on strangers, agonizing as they were. But he didn't think he could tolerate it on the faces of the people who meant the most to him in the entire world. He bit down hard into his lower lip as he allowed himself to seek out his mother and father, hoping that small amount of physical pain would shield him from the emotional pain he knew he'd find there.

His mother was dry-eyed, one of the only ones in the room, but shaking so hard that his father had to hold her tightly to physically restrain her. She had her arms wrapped securely around her chest and was rocking herself back and forth, just as she had rocked him when he was a baby. Sam hadn't seen her in the hospital, and had never seen her suffering from such a level of shock. She was so small now, so dainty, and frail, that it didn't look like her body would be able to withstand the amount of pressure she was putting on it. His father held his arms firmly encircled around his wife, trying to hold her small frame still. His lips were buried in her hair, pressing her head down ever so slightly to push her eyes away from the line of the screen. Over her head, he watched the scene play out before him. His eyes were steady, his protective instinct outweighing the desire to indulge his fear and sadness, but tear droplets dangled precariously in the corners of his eyes.

Quinn was sitting still and silent, eyes wide in shock. Her upper class upbringing had taught her to sit straight and proper at all times, and under severe pressure, it was a shell that she retreated into to keep her safe. Her lips were pressed tightly into a straight line. She was the strongest person Sam had ever met. She watched every fleeting second of the film with a steady gaze, but Sam didn't feel ashamed as he watched her watching him. She was on his side. He knew she wasn't judging him; she was condemning the men who did this to him.

As he finally managed to turn back to the video screen, Sam was confronted with his own face. The bleeding and bruising marred his appearance, but he was still easily identifiable to the jury. Identity wasn't an issue, at least not for them. Sam wasn't so sure though. The face he saw framed on that screen was the face of a child. Scared eyed, trembling lips. He looked at the boy in the video, unwilling to believe that that was actually him, and only a few months ago. He felt so much different now, like he had aged years, like things were serious now when only months ago, when they first moved into their new house in Ohio, life had felt like a game. A game that he was winning. But the confusion in the eyes of the boy on the video showed that he was learning, right at that moment, that nothing was a game.

"_I-I-I can't."_

"_You can't? Or you don't want to. Because I think you want to, don't you Sammy."_

"_Please don't do this."_

Sam felt his stomach lurching. Please stop please stop please stop. Not again. This isn't happening again. Don't make me do this again.

"_You have a girlfriend Sammy?"_

"_What's her name, Sammy?"_

"_Uh, it's Qui . . . Katie. It's Katie."_

"_How do you think Katie's gonna feel about her hot boyfriend being a cocksucker? You think she'll like that, Sammy? Think she'll like that you used those pretty lips and swallowed my cock like a slut? Think she'll like knowing her boyfriend loved getting his ass pumped full of cum? Don't worry Sammy. After you're gone, I'll tell Katie you moaned like a whore."_

A strangled sob broke the silence in the courtroom, and all eyes flew to the gallery. Quinn was tripping over Mr. Evans' knees, climbing desperately over the obstacles in her way to reach the aisle. Once her feet hit the ground, she was flying down the aisle, bursting through the courtroom doors. Sam's heart raced as he leapt from the stand, jumping down over the steps leading up to it and bolting into a dead run after her.

The jury was stunned silent. The prosecutor shot up from his seat at the table.

"A ten minute recess your Honor?" he all but shouted.

"Granted."

Mary Evans stood to run after her son, but Dwight grabbed her wrist.

"Let him go, Mary. Please, let him go."

When Sam launched himself through the courtroom doors, his eyes shot from side to side, scanning the hall for Quinn. He spotted her, crumpled in a pile on the floor, one hand clutching her stomach, the other trembling over her lips as she sobbed. She had made it halfway to the bathroom before she collapsed. Sam raced to her and fell to his knees by her side. He pulled her tight to his chest and held her heaving body as she wailed. She was screaming and crying loudly enough to attract the attention of everyone loitering around the courthouse halls, but Sam saw only her.

She balled her fists into the collar of his shirt and buried her face against his chest, her streaking makeup and running nose smearing his shirt. She was crying so hard that she was choking herself, and he was scared, terrified. He didn't know what to do. He entangled one hand in her hair at the back of her head, holding her steady against his chest, while he ran the other up and down her back. He rocked her and shushed soothingly into her ear, but nothing seemed to work. She was shaking herself back and forth and screaming, digging her nails into his collar so hard it was starting to leave marks. Her eyes opened wildly. Sam had seen that look before, on himself. It was the look of terror, of desperation, that he had seen in his own eyes in the video, just before his body turned to bolt for the woods. Quinn's eyes shot back and forth like an animal's, looking for an escape route, somewhere to run. He felt her tensing to move. He knew he could physically overpower her, but she would fight him.

"Do ya hear me? I'm talkin to you," he sang quietly into her ear, rocking her softly. "Across the water, across the deep blue ocean, under the open sky. Oh my, baby I'm trying. Girl I hear you in my dreams. I feel your whisper across the sea. I keep you with me in my heart. You make it easier when life gets hard."

Slowly, Quinn began to settle. She pulled back slightly from her deadlock on his collar and looked at him, dazed. Her face was red and puffy, streaked violently with black and glittered makeup. Her breaths began to slow.

"I'm lucky I'm in love with my best friend," Sam continued softly, his arms wrapping around Quinn's waist. "Lucky to have been where I have been. Lucky to be coming home again."

A single, brittle laugh escaped Quinn's lips, and she snorted a bit as she drew in a breath. Sam leaned in and pressed his lips to her forehead.

"Baby, tell me what's wrong?" he asked, his forehead resting against hers.

"You, you tried to protect me," she whispered, squinting at him through puffed eyelids. "Why did you do that?"

"I love you Quinn," he answered simply, then looked down at his hands, laced in hers. "I didn't want to hear him say your name. You're perfect, Quinn. I didn't want him to ruin you too."

"Oh God, Sam," she circled her arms around his neck and allowed herself to melt against him, exhaling. "You're not ruined. You're mine, and you're everything I could have ever wanted. Just the way you are."

Sam felt that smile threatening at his lips, but Quinn kissed him before it could take over his face. When she pulled back, Mr. Walker stepped up to them, placing one hand on each of their backs.

"Are you two all right?"

Sam and Quinn looked at each other, then up at the prosecutor, nodding.

"Do you think you're ok to go on today? If not I can ask the judge to adjourn."

Sam gave the man a small smile and nodded. He stood and helped Quinn to her feet, then let Mr. Walker lead them back into the courtroom.


	26. Chapter 26

**Hey guys, sorry for another long wait and a looooong chapter! I can't tell if we've lost readers along the way, or if we're still going strong, but either way, I'll stick this out to the end. Only a few chapters and an epilogue left! I hope you're enjoying the story, and enjoy this chapter. The ending of this chapter has been playing out in my head since we jointly decided that Sam would live. I hope I did it justice!**

**Oh, and throughout the cross examination scene, Nolan's thoughts appear frequently, NOT in quotation marks. There's so much dialogue that I thought it would be confusing, so beware of that.**

Chapter 26

Sam stood in front of the mirror in the courthouse bathroom, checking his appearance. His mom had ironed Darren Fabray's gray suit and dress shirt so that he could wear it again, as he'd be doing each day for the remainder of the trial. He pulled his belt a notch tighter around his hips. He tried to deny the fact that he was losing weight because it made his parents feel so guilty, but the embarrassing reality was that Sam was getting closer to being able to fit into Kurt's clothes than Finn's. He'd be fine for baseball season, but he knew that if he didn't gain back at least some of the fifteen pounds he'd lost by next football season, he was going to get his clock cleaned on a daily basis.

His face was looking a bit haggard too, he noticed, as he tried to rub the tiredness out of his eyes. He looked like he'd been drinking too much the night before. The truth was that he had never drank like he did on New Year's Eve, and he never wanted to again. That night, he had reasoned that for once, he didn't want to feel, that he deserved to not feel anything for a little while. But he honestly didn't like the person he became that night. It took that heartbreaking moment with Quinn, in which he realized he was hurting her but hadn't been attentive enough to not cause her pain in the first place, to make him understand that his ability to feel was the best thing about him. Reading other people, knowing what they thought and what they needed, knowing what he could do for them, was what he was good at, and it was the thing he liked most about himself. So, sacrificing the best part of himself just to be relieved of the pain that plagued him seemed selfish, and he vowed not to do it again.

With that said, he did drink one beer that his dad had given him last night. After he eased Quinn back into the courtroom yesterday, he had to return to the witness stand for Mr. Walker to finish his questioning. Mr. Walker showed a few more clips of the video, showing the torture and rape Sam had suffered while hanging from the hook in the ceiling. By that point in the time line, Sam had been beaten so badly that he had mentally retreated, and the only sounds filling the courtroom were the grunts of his attackers expending their energy to slash at his littered skin. By the time Mr. Walker turned off the video, the only dry eyes in the room were the four defendants, the defense attorney, and Sam. Even the judge kept his eyes lowered so that he could quickly brush away a tear without notice.

Mr. Walker had asked a few more questions, and then court adjourned for the day. On the ride back to Ohio, Quinn and Sam sat silently, their interlaced fingers laying on the seat the only indication that they were a couple. Sam's parents were also speechless for the duration of the ride. No one was mad, they weren't even really sad yet, they were just all in shock. It was only then that Sam fully realized that his parents never truly understood what had happened to him before they saw that video.

When they finally got back to the motel room, Quinn offered to retrieve the children from Finn and Rachel's daycare center. Sam and Quinn were taking days off of school to be present at the trial, but Stevie and Stacy still had to go to school. So far, the family had been able to shield them from the reality of what had happened, other than Sam's little talk about hand holding in the hospital. No one thought that bringing them to the trial would be a good idea, no matter how much Stevie had begged. It was his curiosity that fueled him. Over and over, Sam promised him that when he was old enough, he would explain everything to him. Stevie reluctantly agreed, and the two were delivered to Burt and Carole's home in the morning for Finn to drive to school. After school, Finn picked them up, and he and Rachel looked after them until the Evans returned from Indiana. Sam had never been so grateful for anything in his life. No matter how bad his ordeal had been, his friends had really stepped up and came through for him. It was amazing, really, considering that he was the new kid who they had only known for a few months. But they had proved themselves to be great people, no matter how much petty gossip and bickering they engaged in in the choir room.

During Quinn's trip across town, Sam was left alone with his parents for the first time since they saw the video. It was weird. He and his dad sat on boxes on the table, while his mom seated herself on a corner of the large bed. Neither one of them would look directly at him. In fact, they looked at everything but him. His mom pulled at stray threads in the comforter, while his dad examined his worn and weathered cuticles. Sam looked back and forth between them, willing one of them to look at him, to say something to him, anything . . . anything. The heat began to rise in his cheeks, and he felt a clenching in his chest.

"Are you ashamed of me?" Sam's voice, sounding smaller and shakier than he had intended, broke the silence.

The question, and the fear it exposed in him, seemed to burst through the dam of his parents' emotions, and they leapt to pull him into their arms, desperate to reassure him.

"No, no, sweetheart. Oh, please don't think that, baby" his mom soothed, her fingertips brushing strands of hair away from his forehead. "We love you so much. We would never, never be ashamed of you. We just don't know how to help you, baby. Tell us how to help you." She held his face between her hands, desperately searching his eyes for an answer.

"Mom, I'm ok," he promised, cheeks blushing. "I'm the same as I was yesterday. The only difference is now you've seen it. I'm sorry you had to see it. I wish you didn't."

Eventually, Sam was able to convince his parents that he was all right, and the three sat, weary and exasperated, waiting for Quinn to return with the children. His dad opened the door to the mini-fridge, staring for a moment into the bright, empty whiteness that signified their descent into poverty. Scratching the back of his head, he reached for the six pack of Miller Lite he had been hording for months since their move. It was an indulgence he would never spend what little change they had on now, but hey, you can't sell back beer, right?

Sam felt an icy can slip into his hand and looked up at his dad in confusion.

"I've been saving these for when I really needed one, and kiddo, after today, I think I really need one."

Sam was still utterly confused as his long fingers extended around the can, the cool condensation wetting his palm.

"Don't get used to it, kiddo, but after today, I think you could really use one too."

He ruffled Sam's hair, and Sam offered up a crooked grin. They were going to be ok.

Now, looking at himself in the mirror, it wasn't the one beer Sam saw, but the two and a half months of nearly constant strain. Even though he had reached a level of normalcy that he could maintain, it was always there, in the back of his mind—the fact that his normal was different now than it used to be. Straightening his tie and smoothing his jacket one more time, Sam stepped out into the marble halls of the courthouse and gave Mr. Walker a smile.

Mr. Walker placed a hand on Sam's lower back and led him through the doors to the courtroom. Sam's eyes widened. Yesterday, it had been only his family and a few straggling members of the defendants' families who had attended the trial. Today, there was a large crowd sitting all the way in the back, twenty five people or so. What the hell? Mr. Walker had said it was a closed trial, no public allowed in. Were these people reporters? Were they going to take pictures? Draw those stupid cartoons? Were they going to tell everyone what happened? What was in the video? Maybe he had been asking too much. Maybe he had been spoiled. Sam desperately tried to swallow the lump out of his throat. Don't complain. Don't whine. Just suck it up and be an adult about it. What's meant to happen will happen.

But no matter how many times he swallowed, and no matter how many times he scolded himself, that sickening feeling deep in his gut didn't dissipate as he was asked to take the stand for cross examination.

0000000000000000000

Nolan sat quietly at his counsel table as his opponent stood to approach his witness. He knew this guy, Claydis, had tried a few cases against him before. His style depended on the witness. With expert witnesses or other people in positions of authority, he was a bulldozer. He went straight for the jugular, attacking from his very first question. He immediately set them on guard and got them so flustered and frustrated that they often were unable to answer his questions without stammering and halting. The idea was to make experts look like idiots. Personally, Nolan didn't think this made the witnesses look like idiots, it just made them look like human beings who were reacting to being attacked. But that, of course, was a question of interpretation for the jury.

With more sympathetic witnesses, particularly victims or children, he was much sneakier. At first, his style was very friendly, conversational, and relaxed. He would ask the witness questions in the same tone of voice that he would ask his best friend, leading the witness to believe that he was just engaged in a warm, concerned conversation. He would then ease his way, very slowly, into his more provocative questions, and by the time the witness realized he was attacking them, his fangs were already in their throats, injecting his poisonous venom into their bloodstreams.

He had sent the warning early that if Nolan put Sam on the stand, he would eat him alive, but Nolan was confident that Sam wouldn't give him what he was looking for. Sam wasn't an aggressive person by nature, and while he was extremely protective of his family and his friends, he seemed to be able to tolerate fairly well insults directed solely at him. Nolan had coached him carefully so that he would know to expect the insults and keep his emotions in check. Sam was a strong kid, and a smart one. Nolan was confident that he could handle it. He wouldn't have put him on the stand if he didn't think he could.

Claydis strolled up to the witness stand. Without asking to approach, Nolan noticed with annoyance. He always asked, so that the judge and jury knew he played by the rules. He set his hands down on the stand, planting himself about a foot in front of Sam's face. Sam's eyes glanced out to the side, searching for Nolan, but the defense attorney slid into his line of sight, between Sam and Nolan, blocking his view of the one person who was supposed to be protecting him.

"Hi Sam," he smiled warmly. He was good, but Nolan could see right through it.

"Hi."

"I'm Adam Claydis. You can call me Adam, ok? I know this whole thing is very formal and scary, but it doesn't have to be," he smiled. Like the fucking Cheshire Cat, Nolan thought.

"Ok."

"So Sam, that's definitely you in the video right?"

"Yes, sir."

"Oh ok, I just wanted to make sure that you're sure, because I can't really tell so well. I mean, you're blond, the man in the video is blond, but that man's face is so damaged that you can't really tell can you."

"That's me, sir. I still have the scars ya'll—excuse me, you all—saw them give me in the video."

"Oh no, I believe you Sam. I just wanted to be sure you remembered clearly, because personally, besides the blond hair, it's just really hard for me to see the resemblance because of the bruising and the blood."

Sam was silent.

"So, how old did you say you were Sam?"

"I'm fifteen sir."

"Fifteen, wow. You look so much older, don't you think?"

"Um, I think I look fifteen."

"You really think so? I would've sworn you were at least a college student. Anyway, that's not a big deal." He began sidling back towards his counsel table, his back turned to Sam. "So Sam, you're a pretty good looking guy. I'm sure people tell you that all the time, right?"

"Excuse me?"

"Objection, your Honor," Nolan stood up, exasperated. He wasn't really sure if this was just Claydis trying to get Sam to relax, or if he had some ulterior motive, but this line of questioning definitely had nothing to do with his case. "Where is this going?"

"Wherever you're going with this, get there quickly, Mr. Claydis," the judge stated dryly, not looking up from his notes.

The defense counsel chuckled a bit.

"Sorry if I threw you off a bit there, Sam. What I was getting at is that your good looks ought to help you out a lot with your performing career, don't you think?"

"My performing career?"

"Well, you do like to perform, right? You're in the glee club at school, you like to sing, dance, act, play the guitar, right? I'm sure you've thought about becoming a famous singer or actor?"

"Um, I guess so." Sam was starting to squirm a bit. Nolan felt for him, he really did. Like Sam, he was starting to get the feeling that Claydis was on the prowl.

"That would be really cool, wouldn't it? I always wanted to be Springsteen when I grew up."

Sam gave him an awkward smile. It was generous, way more than Nolan would've given him, but Sam wasn't familiar with this world of sharks yet.

"So, your big acting debut was as Rocky from the Rocky Horror Picture Show?"

"Well, sorta. I was supposed to play Rocky for our school musical, but then we ended up not doing it at all."

"That must've been wild, it's such a bizarre show! You wore the gold bikini and everything?"

"I wore the gold shorts, yeah."

"What a tough role, you must be a great actor! I mean, Rocky is pretty much Dr. Frankfurter's gay sex slave that he created for his personal use, right?"

Sam glared at him, then responded after a long pause, "Yes."

"You must be pretty confident. There's no way I could get out there on stage playing such a sexual character and wearing so little." And you damn well shouldn't, Nolan thought, burning holes in the sides of his opponent's head with his eyes. "So you feel pretty good about how you look?"

"I guess so. I mean, I was pretty nervous. I thought I'd be fine with it but I was pretty embarrassed. My teacher, Mr. Schuester, ended up taking over the role for me because he felt bad that I was uncomfortable."

"Still, though, you work out all the time, and you're proud of your body, right?"

Another long pause, "I _was_."

"And Sam, your family's homeless right?" Sam was clearly fidgeting. Hang on kiddo, Nolan encouraged him in his thoughts.

"Sorta."

"Sort of how? Your parents lost their jobs, right? And the bank foreclosed on your house?"

"Yes, sir."

"That's awful. Where do you live now?"

"In a motel room."

"So it's you, your mom and your dad all in that one room?"

"I have a younger brother and sister who live there with us too."

"How old are they?"

"Stevie is ten and Stacy is eight."

"So there are five of you living in a motel room?"

"Yes, sir."

"One bed?

"Yes, sir."

"Where do you all sleep?"

"My mom and dad and the two little ones are in the bed. I have a sleeping bag."

"On the floor?"

"Yes, sir."

"That must be so tough. And tell me Sam, who pays the rent on the motel room?"

A very long pause passed uncomfortably. "I do."

"How do you afford it?"

"I deliver pizzas at night."

"Wow. That must be hard. How close are you to being out on the streets?"

"I, I don't, I don't know." Come on Sam, hang in there buddy. He was wavering, though, starting to stumble over words, breath catching, voice halting.

"Come on, Sam. If you're the one handling your family's finances, you should know that, right?"

"I, I don't handle our finances, I just give my parents my paychecks. I, I really don't know, honest."

"I bet you would do anything to keep that from happening, wouldn't you Sam?"

"Yes," he choked. "Yes."

Claydis was getting exactly what he wanted. The poor kid was so shaken and vulnerable, like he was physically struggling to hold the pieces of himself together. Nolan imagined the boy shattered into hundreds of brittle shards then reassembled haphazardly with crazy glue and scotch tape. Any blow of the wind would send him toppling. Sam was developing a nervous habit of clutching at the wound in his lower stomach when he got uncomfortable. The boy had confided in him that it was still very sore and caused him a great deal of pain, but that it also tingled with an indescribable numbing sensation whenever he thought about the attacks. Sometimes, if he went into a panic attack, he said he could actually feel himself being stabbed again, just like he felt it the first time. Nolan felt very strongly that Sam was in need of psychiatric help. Even if the boy was doing an impossibly good job of holding himself together at the seams, someday, these panic attacks and flash backs, the bodily memories of physical pain, they would all creep up on him and devour him. But what could he do? What could anyone do? Although Sam's case was certainly unique, it was the plight of the poor to not have access to the resources they desperately needed.

"I believe that, Sam," the defense attorney started, closing in on his prey. "I believe you're a good kid, and that you would do anything to spare your family the pain and humiliation of begging for food. Especially those two little ones. You were just doing the best you could, right Sam?"

"I-I-I'm trying. I'm trying."

"I know you are, I know. See Sam, here's what I think happened. You're desperate. You're about to be living on the streets, your baby brother and sister are about to be starving. You're probably on your way to dropping out of school so you can deliver pizzas full time and support your family. That had to be running through your mind, right?"

"Yes, sir."

"And you're not too bright, are you Sam? You're dyslexic, and you can't really read, can you?"

"I can read, sir, it just takes me a while."

"So you aren't really capable of finding a job that requires any kind of intellectual capability, right? I mean, the best you can do is delivering pizzas, and I bet it doesn't pay that well."

"I, I'm not, I'm not stupid, I—"

"So, you knew what business my clients were in, right Sam? And you were thinking to yourself, 'Well, I'm not very smart, but what do I have going for me that I can use to make money for my family?' And the answer was pretty clear, right? You know how attractive you are, and that you have that killer body that gets everyone's juices flowing, right? And you knew what you had to do."

Jesus Christ, Nolan thought. He wanted desperately to leap from his chair to object so he could protect Sam. But he knew objecting in this situation would only legitimize his opponent's litany of lies. You object frequently when your opponent is telling the truth, to try to indicate to the jury that something is seriously wrong with the argument. But when he's clearly making shit up, you keep your ass in the chair. You don't want the jury to think he's actually onto something. He prayed to God that Sam could handle it, and that he didn't turn into a complete mess of crying incoherence on the stand, because he was on his own now. Nolan couldn't shield him from it now.

Sam's eyes narrowed. "If you're going to accuse me of something like that, you need to actually say it to my face. It doesn't deserve an answer if you don't even have the guts to ask it."

Nolan's eyes widened a bit in shock. Wow, kid.

"Fine, then. I was just trying to be gentle with you because I know how hard it must have been for you. But if that's how you want it, fine. You prostituted yourself. You went to my clients and asked them how much they would pay for a piece of ass as good as yours. You're clearly used to being sexualized on a daily basis, this wasn't too big a step, was it? You sold your body out to them. And let's see, you look like a young college jock, you look straight, and you let four adult men take you in every conceivable way, multiple times, what does that all add up to, about five grand? I bet five thousand dollars is a lot of money to a homeless person, isn't it Sam?"

"No, no, that's not—"

"Then when your Southern Protestant mommy and daddy found out about what you'd done to keep them off the streets, they got pissed and you cried rape. No one here is judging you, Sam. We've all been in the deep end, and I'm sure there are a few of us here, maybe even some of you on the jury," he turned to wave a hand towards them, scanning their eyes, "who would have done the same thing you did to try to protect their families. But let's face it, Sam, my clients' only crime here was believing you when you said you were twenty-one, and taking pity on a young man with a depressing home life and neglectful parents."

"Don't you dare say that about my—"

"Come on, Sam, admit it. You're nothing more than a whore, are you? You used your best asset for money, and whether or not my clients go to jail for your lies, you'll probably do it again, won't you." His voice was solemn, as if he had Sam all figured out and it was pitiful.

"As long as your clients are in jail, this won't happen to me again."

"You keep telling yourself that, Sam. I'm sure that makes it easier for you to sleep at night. No further questions, your Honor."

Nolan stood slowly, trying to give Sam a moment to collect himself. He desperately wanted to console him, to hold Sam's face in his hands and tell him that that man was a vicious liar, and that no one believed him. He wanted to smooth Sam's hair, which he had managed to run his hands through and twist so much during his time on the stand that it was sticking out in all directions. But the best he could do was offer him just a second of time to regain control.

"Redirect, your Honor?"

"Proceed."

"Sam, I'll be brief. But I have to ask you something very personal. Is that ok?"

Sam closed his eyes and exhaled through his nose. The kid had been dragged through the wringer so far today, Nolan didn't blame him. He nodded, his eyes still closed.

"Son, you have to give audible answers so the court reporter can get it in the record, ok?" the judge explained.

"Objection!" Claydis shot up from his table seething, looking deeply offended. Nolan turned very slowly to stare at him in disbelief.

"On what grounds?" the judge asked incredulously.

"Sidebar?"

The judge sighed, clearly annoyed. "Approach."

Nolan and Claydis stood shoulder to shoulder before the bench, blocking the jury's view.

"Your Honor, I object to you calling the witness 'son.'"

"You have got to be kidding me," Nolan whispered.

"No, I am not kidding. You are in a position of authority, your Honor, and if the jury believes that you're sympathizing with him, that severely prejudices my clients."

The judge huffed. "Very well, Mr. Claydis. I will instruct the jury and I will be more careful with my choice of words."

"Thank you, your Honor." Nolan swore he could see that asshole's chest visibly swelling. They returned to their places, Claydis at his counsel table, Nolan at the witness stand with Sam.

"The objection is sustained. The jury will disregard my use of the term 'son' with regards to the witness, and it shall be stricken from the record."

Nolan smiled gleefully. "That's exactly what you deserve you asshole," he thought.

"Ok, Sam, let's try again. I'm going to ask you some very personal questions, ok?"

"Ok."

"Now Sam, the defense attorney just accused you of having sex for money. That's not true, is it?"

"No, absolutely not."

"And you didn't let them beat you, or choke you, or whip you, or shoot you, or stab you for money either, right?"

"No. No, of course not."

"Ok, and Sam, before the day you were kidnapped, up until that point, had you ever had sex before?"

Sam stared down at his hands fidgeting in his lap.

"No."

"So you were a virgin?"

"Yes, sir."

"Had you had any kind of sexual experience before they raped you?"

"I kissed a girl once back in Tennessee. And I kissed my girlfriend, Quinn. Sometimes she lets me put my hand on her leg."

"And what about afterwards, Sam? Have you had sex since then?"

Again, he looked down, this time smoothing the fabric of his slacks over his thighs.

"No, sir."

"So, let me just get this straight. With the exception of what we all saw on that video tape, you've never had sex."

"That's right."

"Not with a girl or a boy?"

"That's right."

"You lost your virginity on that tape?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, Sam, even if rape takes away your physical virginity, I truly believe that you still have your emotional virginity to give to someone you love, and I hope you're able to come to terms with that too someday."

"Objection!"

"Withdrawn. No further questions, your Honor."

Claydis sprung up from his seat.

"Just a few more question for this witness your Honor."

The judge grunted. At least Nolan knew someone was on his side.

"That's your girlfriend in the gallery, there, right Sam? Quinn Fabray?"

"Yes, sir."

"How long have you two been together?"

"About five months."

"And you haven't slept with her yet?"

"No, sir."

"Isn't it true that Miss Fabray got pregnant last year? And she gave birth to a daughter that she gave up for adoption?"

"Yeah, so?" Nolan could see Sam's eyes narrowing, hear the bitterness in his voice. Keep it together, Sam, Nolan coached. Come on, kiddo.

"So you mean to tell me that you're dating a girl who got pregnant when she was sixteen, and you've never slept with her? What's wrong with you?"

Nolan watched as Sam bit down hard on the insides of his cheeks, his hands balling into fists. His eyes narrowed and he glared at the attorney, who, in turn, was trying to stare him down. Nolan prayed to sweet baby Jesus that Sam could keep his composure and not fly off the handle and punch Claydis in the mouth. He had done some good work bringing his innocence out for the jury. If you had a choice of how you'd want your victim to look, and what his or her demeanor would be like, you'd definitely choose Sam. Sweet, good-natured, soft-spoken, and almost cherubic in the face—he was the perfect victim to garner the jury's sympathy. But he could ruin that in a second if he lashed out and showed the jury an ugly side of himself.

"My girlfriend wears a ring on her right ring finger," Sam started, slowly, evenly, pacing himself so that he wouldn't explode. "It's a promise ring. I scraped together every penny I had before we lost the house to get it for her. And when I gave it to her, I promised her that I would never, ever put pressure on her to do anything she didn't want to do. People took advantage of her because she doesn't always know how beautiful she is, but I love her and I respect her, and I'm going to prove that to her no matter what it takes, or how long I have to wait. That's what's wrong with me."

Nolan just about started his victory lap. This moron was making his victim look like a fucking saint. Saint Sam, newly anointed. The first rule, perhaps the only truly important rule of cross examination was that you never ask a question you don't know the answer to. Why? Because this shit is what happens. You try to point out the unlikelihood of a teenaged football player not banging the hot cheerleader who already got pregnant once, and he comes up with a speech about a promise ring and love and respect. That's right, go sit down with your tail between your legs, because that's what you deserve for asking such a brutal question.

Claydis tried a few more questions to swing the jury back around in his favor, but Sam wouldn't sway. There was no taking back the fact that he had accused a fifteen-year-old boy of being a prostitute, and then all but called his seventeen-year-old girlfriend a slut. There was no way the jury could believe his little story about Sam, not after that, right? With the last of his questions failing to shake Sam's resolve, Claydis did what he probably should have done in the first place; he sat down.

Sam was finally released from the torture of the witness stand, and he floated back to his place in the gallery in a daze. Quinn was there waiting for him, and she slid easily into his arms, holding herself tight against his chest. He smoothed her hair and whispered in her ear. What the two young lovers were saying to each other after that ordeal, Nolan couldn't even begin to guess.

000000000000000000000

The judge had decided to adjourn a bit early that day. The room was so emotionally charged, and the jury so depleted, that it just made no sense to continue on with the last of the state's witnesses. Or at least that's what the judge had said before he ended the session with a bang of his gavel. Sam was grateful for it. The day had already been long, and he had been on the witness stand for the entirety of it. Part of him wished the trial never happened. He knew it was a stupid thought. Without the trial, the men who did this to him and all those other kids would still be out there, probably choosing their next victim by now. But part of him wanted desperately to just move on. He began healing the moment he woke up in the hospital, and even though there had been numerous bumps in the road, he was able to see the panic attacks, the nightmares, the moments of fear or sadness as temporary obstacles in his long-term recovery. The trial, though, was hard to see as temporary. It was a long, painful invasion into his mind, body, and soul, and it felt like a step backwards, like a recreation of the kidnapping. Ultimately, his sense of duty and responsibility outweighed his sense of self protection.

Sam's head felt clouded as he stepped through the doors of the courthouse with his parents and Quinn. He blinked, adjusting to the sunlight.

"Mom, dad? Would it be ok if I wait here for a few minutes before we get in the car? I could use the fresh air, if that's ok."

"Of course," his dad smiled, giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze. Sam returned the smile and lowered himself onto the courthouse steps. He wrapped an arm around Quinn's shoulders, and she leaned easily into him. It was unseasonably warm for early February, and though there was a chill in the air, the sun was warm and bright. Sam and Quinn sat for minutes in a comfortable silence, nestled into each other's sides, faces turned up to welcome the sun.

"Sam? Sam Evans?"

Sam looked up. Hovering above him was a small, mouse-like woman with light brown, waving curls and glasses. Her small, pale mouth was pinched into a tight pucker, and she shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other. Was she a reporter? She didn't look aggressive enough to be a reporter; in fact, she looked very nearly terrified. Of him? No one had ever been afraid of him in his life. Except maybe those middle school boys who had tried to taunt Stevie. Even then, Sam had firmly but politely explained to them why what they were doing was bad. It was his height and his muscle that intimidated them, not anything he had said. And Maybe Karofsky had been afraid of him for a fleeting moment right before his fist was connecting with Sam's face. Probably not. In general, his size and build were counterbalanced by his blond hair, soft eyes, and pouty lips, making it impossible for him to strike fear in almost anyone. So why this tiny woman was shaking like a leaf before him, he had no idea.

"Yes, ma'am?"

Without warning, the woman launched at him, wrapping her arms around him and squeezing him into a vice-like embrace. Sam's heart began to race, and he felt the panic beginning to rise in his stomach. She had his arms pinned down so tightly to his sides that he felt trapped. Immediately, the images began flashing in front of his eyes again. His hands taped behind his back, taped down to the legs of a table, strung up above his head. Unable to move. Can't get free. They're going to hurt me again. She's going to hurt me. On the verge of panic, every muscle in his body began to tense, preparing to use all of his force to throw her off.

But then he felt something. Against his chest, he could feel her breasts heaving, her entire frame shaking. He calmed his mind enough to listen closely. She was barely making a noise, but he was able to identify that wracking, jerking movement her back was making. She was sobbing. Or trying to prevent herself from sobbing, at the very least.

"Cindy, Cindy come on. Let him go," a man hurried up behind her, taking her gently by the shoulders and plucking her off of him. She stumbled back stiffly into his arms, and he whispered into her ear, trying to soothe her.

"But he looks just like Jeremy," she whimpered.

"Shhh, no he doesn't, sweetheart. No he doesn't." The man rubbed her back while she calmed down. "I'm very sorry about this," he said to Sam, his eyes warm and sympathetic.

"I, I don't understand," Sam started cautiously. "Do we know each other?"

"My, my baby," the woman cried. If that was her answer, it left Sam even more in the dark than he had been before. His eyes turned slowly to meet the older man's, hoping he would find something there to provide an explanation. He must have noticed Sam's confusion.

"I'm Dave," he offered. "This is my wife, Cindy. We, um . . . we, our," he looked down at his feet, scratching the back of his head. Sam saw the emotion playing through his eyes. It was the same emotion Sam had been feeling through the trial, that need to be strong, to hold it together. He tried again, "Our son, Jeremy, he was their . . . he was their first victim. Four years ago now."

"Oh God, I, I'm so sorry." Sam's chest tightened. If he didn't keep his thoughts moving very, very slowly, he was going to cry. He had a difficult enough time tolerating the looks of pain on his parents' faces. They were sad, they were angry, at times they even looked afraid, and Sam hated it. But they had their son, with a few bumps and scratches, but in good health. These people would never see their child again. They had to bury him. It was the thought occupying Sam's mind when Tyler and the others had driven him to the roadside where they tried to kill him. It was a thought Sam couldn't cope with.

"The prosecutor thought it would be best if none of us came yesterday to see the, uh, the video. He said it would be too devastating. But we wanted to be at the rest of the trial, to be there for our sons, and to support you. You're very brave, Sam. It took a lot of guts to get on that stand and let that shark tear away at you." He laid a hand gently on Sam's shoulder. "And for the record, those things he said about you . . . we all know it isn't true. Everyone knows it's not true, and the jury will, too."

Sam gave him the biggest smile he could muster up, which was little more than a crooked grin, and thanked him.

"Come on now, Cindy. Let's get going, ok?" With an arm wrapped around his wife's lower back, he tried to lead her down the steps towards the parking lot.

"Please, Dave," she sniffled, barely audible. "Please, I just want to hold him for a minute. Just, Jeremy, I . . ."

"No, Cindy. Come on," he whispered to her softly, shooting Sam an apologetic glance. "Let's leave Sam alone now, ok? He's got his own family. I'll take you to the soccer field on our way home, I promise. You can talk to Jeremy there. How's that sound?" The smile in his voice was clearly forced. The woman softened a bit, considering the offer, but wouldn't budge.

A while ago, Sam had resigned himself to the fact that people would never think he was smart. He'd go through the rest of his life with people calling him stupid, and it was just something he'd have to live with. But he knew people. The defense attorney had said his best asset was his body. It wasn't. His best asset was a superhuman ability to empathize. With one look, he knew what people needed. And he knew what this woman needed from him right now.

Raising himself to stand on shaky legs, he closed the foot of space between them, towering over her. Leaning down and softening his body as much as he could, he allowed himself to slip easily into her arms. He lowered his face to her shoulder, his nose brushing the warm skin of her neck. Her arms tightened around him, one hand holding the back of his head firmly to her chest, the other gripping at his back. She buried her face in his hair, the tears flowing freely now, crystal droplets clinging to the golden strands. She made no attempts to curb them or to keep herself quiet as she rocked him. Slowly, back and forth, back and forth, to the rhythm of her tears. Sam felt a bit awkward in this stranger's arms, his cheek pressed into the crook of her neck, being rocked like a baby. But she needed him.

When her breathing slowed and her arms around him began to loosen, Sam straightened. The woman looked up at him in a daze and reached up to hold his face between her hands. She brushed strands of hair away from his eyes and traced her fingers over the tops of his ears. "My baby," she murmured, and Sam gave her a sad, gentle smile.

"Cindy," her husband's soft voice seemed to break her from her spell.

"Ok, I'm ready now." She allowed him to lead her away, and as they departed, he turned to mouth a silent thank you to the boy who was not his son, but had given his wife a moment of dearly cherished solitude.

"Sam?"

He turned to find another older couple beside him on the courthouse steps. They looked deeply ashamed. The woman spoke first.

"I, I don't know how to ask, I'm sorry, it's just, I, my son. . ." the tears were already streaming down her face and they were balancing in her husband's eyes as well. "It's just, my son, and I miss him so much, and oh God, I'm sorry, can, can I?" she looked up at him sheepishly.

"What's going on Sam? Is everything ok?" his dad asked, as he and his mom wandered over from the courthouse door, where they had been talking to Mr. Walker. Sam nodded, and his dad took the hint, leading his mom and Quinn over to the steps on the other side, where they could keep a watchful eye on him while still giving him space.

Without a word, Sam stepped into their arms.

Over the next hour and a half, Sam met the families of each of the thirteen boys who had been killed by his attackers. Some were younger couples with children, at other times it was a woman or a man alone, the strain of their child's ghost too much to bear on their marriage. Sam knew that he was just himself. Just a fifteen year old kid with shaggy blond hair and dyslexia. Just a kid who loved football and playing the guitar and doing stupid impressions. Just a kid trying to make ends meet for his family. He was none of their sons. But in the warm moments as they held him, something magical happened. A spell was cast and he transformed in body and spirit into the precious child they had lost. Sam didn't know what he was doing, or if he was doing it right, but he knew what they needed. He didn't have money or possessions, but it was just him they needed, and if that was all they were asking, it was something he could give.


	27. Chapter 27

**Hey everyone, thanks for reading and reviewing! This chapter shows a different side to Sam, and I hope you'll forgive me for tinkering with the perfectly sweet boy we all know and love. This chapter was originally supposed to be much longer, but I decided to cut it into two. Too many plot elements. Anyway, that means that, according to plan, there are two more chapters and an epilogue after this. Enjoy!**

Chapter 27

Even through the velvet blackness of the night, the light of the full moon cast a silvery shadow over the tiny basement bedroom where Quinn and her boyfriend lay tucked into a twin bed meant for one. He was on his side, facing the window, with one arm curled under his head; Quinn was pressed warmly to his back. She had insisted on spooning him that night, the exact opposite of their customary sleeping arrangement. Normally, she loved feeling so small and fragile in his arms, feeling like he was protecting her. And she knew he loved it too, loved feeling like he was sheltering her from the world. As they had both learned recently, they had so little control over what went on outside the confines of their cramped bed. But in it, they perpetuated the myth that his body wrapped around hers meant that he could protect her from hurt and fear.

Tonight, though, the roles were reversed. It had been a very emotional day. After five days of testimony, the government had rested its case, and the defense didn't call any witnesses of its own. The judge had sent the jury into deliberations over the lunch break. It had been clear that Sam and his parents were very nervous, but Mr. Walker had assured them that on a trial this big and with so much evidence to consider, the jury would most likely be in deliberations for a week, if not a month. They would have time to relax. They could all go home, Sam and Quinn could go back to school, and Mr. Walker would call them when the jury had reached a verdict. At that point, they could either listen in over the phone, or the court would wait to read the verdict until they had time to drive back to Indiana.

But the jury had come back in an hour.

Quinn and Sam had looked to each other, confused, when they saw Mr. Walker's face pale. What did it mean that the jury had come back so fast? Clearly, it meant that they were absolutely certain, one way or the other. But which way? Quinn hoped and prayed that the utterly tragic video footage the jury had seen had shocked them into an easy conviction. But in less than an hour, had they really even taken enough time to consider the evidence?

They had stood nervously, awkwardly, as the jury filed into its box, stealing glances at each other. Quinn wanted more than anything for Sam to hold her hand, but he was distracted. His own hands were clenched together tightly before him, and he bit at the corner of his lip, as he always did when he was nervous. Thank God he wasn't planning on pursuing a career in crime, Quinn thought, because he was a horrible liar, and he was even worse at hiding his emotions. When the jury had settled into their seats, the rest of the courtroom was allowed to sit. Only Mr. Claydis and the defendants remained standing.

"Madam Foreperson, have you reached a verdict?" the judge asked.

"We have, your Honor," the woman recited.

"What say you to the count of first degree sexual assault as to the victim, Jeremy Meyers?"

It hadn't been anything like Quinn had expected. On TV, the result was delivered in one or two words, "Guilty" or "Not guilty." After those words, the entire courtroom, packed to capacity with tense bodies, erupted into cheers of elation or gasps and groans of disbelief. A week's worth of evidence and testimony culminated into one monumental, terrifying moment on which the fate of the characters' lives depended.

In reality, it took nearly half an hour for the foreperson to read off the jury's verdict. Fourteen guilty verdicts on fourteen counts of rape. Thirteen guilty verdicts on thirteen counts of first-degree murder. And one guilty verdict on one count of attempted murder. As each verdict was read aloud, a few scattered sighs of relief or sharp sobs erupted from the back of the room, but nothing like the collective wall of unbridled emotion Quinn was expecting.

Across the aisle, John Hightower's mother was holding her face in her hands, sobbing silently. Her back rose and fell, and through the fabric of her dress, Quinn could see the bony ridges of her spine. Quinn wondered if she deserved this. Her son and nephew had committed some of the most atrocious crimes imaginable. There would probably be a Dateline episode on them someday. After all, they were serial killers. _Serial killers_. What an incredible concept. Quinn was looking into the eyes of serial killers, standing twenty feet away from them. But how much of their behavior was attributable to their upbringing? Had this woman beaten them when they were children? Maybe she was a drunk who had abandoned them and left them to raise themselves. Oh God, maybe she had touched them, touched them like they touched Sam and those other boys. Maybe she was completely normal, though, and that's what hurt Quinn the most. Maybe she had been a good mother and a good aunt, had cut the crusts off their peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and supervised their homework. What if you did everything you could, and your child just became a person you never could imagine? A monster? It sent chills down her spine.

Next to her, Mr. and Mrs. Evans were hugging each other in relief. The conviction had to have lifted quite a weight off their shoulders. Knowing the men who had caused their oldest child such pain would be punished for what they did must have constituted some form of closure for them. But next to her, Sam looked hollow. She looked up at him, trying to compel him to turn to her, show her what was in his eyes. Then she would know what he was feeling. But he was just staring off into space, his beautiful blue-green eyes almost gray. Quinn couldn't draw him away from his distraction, and she was too well bred to tug at his elbow for some much desired attention. Instead, she simply folded her hands in front of her and turned her eyes back to the front of the courtroom, where the defendants were being led out by the bailiff.

She felt Sam stiffen as the four men passed within inches of him. This was the closest they had been to him since they left him on that road for dead. One of them, Sam had called him Jared, kept stealing bashful glances at Sam. His hazel eyes would flit up towards Sam's as he passed by, only to dart away before he had a chance of making eye contact. But there was so much in those glances—sadness, fear, longing, they were all present. "He's insane," Quinn reminded herself. But in his delusions, Quinn could tell he had fallen deep for her boyfriend.

No matter how hard he tried to hide it, Quinn felt Sam actually cringe as the last defendant, Tyler, passed by slowly. She could feel the electricity coursing between them as Sam held himself perfectly still. Those jolts were hitting Sam directly in the chest, and Quinn could see his muscles seizing ever so slightly. The man's eyes were dark, nearly black, and they held the smoldering rage of a caged animal. His demeanor was terrifying. So calm, but so calculated and controlled, impossible to predict. He was a panther with coal black eyes. One moment slinking through the forest trees, pouncing and devouring his prey the next. Sam was nearly trembling.

Tyler stepped past Quinn and Sam, so close that he could reach out and touch them, without so much as a fleeting glance at his victim. As he passed, his steps slowed, and he stopped directly in front of Mr. Evans. Without turning his body, he turned his head so that he was face to face with the older man. Once Mr. Evans realized that Tyler had paused, he released his wife from his embrace and turned to face him. Droplets of palpable tension hung between the two men, making the air heavy and humid. Quinn could barely breathe, and beside her, Sam was holding his breath. Tyler's burning eyes stared directly into Mr. Evans'. The two men were about the same height. His lips curled into a sneer as he inhaled slowly and evenly through his nose.

"Just wanted you to know," his words dripped with venomous sarcasm, "Your son was the best I've ever had."

For a split second, everyone within earshot was paralyzed with shock. Quinn's lips parted and inhaled sharply as she stared at Mr. Evans, watching the rage darken his eyes.

From somewhere to her right, Quinn heard a guttural, animalistic growl like she had never heard before from a human being. Before she had time to comprehend what was happening, Sam was launching himself at Tyler, his fingers curling into the man's collar and clenching down. Tyler stumbled backwards, a bit stunned, into the bailiff's waiting arms, but Sam yanked at his collar, pulling him upright, their faces inches apart. Only the rail—three feet high and pressed between their knees—blocked them from each other.

"You think you're fucking invincible don't you?" Sam seethed. His teeth were clenched so tightly that he was shaking. Quinn's eyes widened. She had never seen such bitterness and hatred come out of her sweet, gentle boyfriend. She had never seen him violent. Even when he picked a fight with Karofsky, it was if he was acting out of a sense of duty and responsibility to Kurt, rather than innate aggression.

"Damn, I forgot how fuckable you look when you're pissed off," Tyler smirked.

"Fuck you!"

"Sam!" His mother's high, terrified voice cut through the gasps of shock.

A snarl escaped Tyler's lips, and his massive right hand shot to Sam's throat.

But it was all over in the fleeting second it took before Quinn could collect herself enough to blink. Mr. Evans nearly tackled Sam from behind, his arms extending to lock around his son's waist in a vice. He dragged him backwards, but Sam resisted, clutching Tyler's collar in a death grip, using all of his weight to pull against his father. "Sam, stop!" he commanded, trying desperately to pin Sam's arms to his sides. But he continued to struggle to get to Tyler, even as two bailiffs wrenched Tyler's arms behind his back, cuffing him in an attempt to control him. He tugged forward against his restraints, leaping at Sam like a pit bull against its chain.

Tyler pulled back and spit at Sam, but the bailiffs had pulled him far enough away that he missed his target. The action wasn't lost on Sam, though, and he leapt again, trying in vain to burst free from his father's grip. "Sam, stop it!" Mr. Evans shouted again, but Sam was in his own world, one filled with darkness and rage. Quinn knew he wasn't himself. He had never blatantly disobeyed his father like that. Not without the fear of God. Now, he was acting as if he had no fear in the world, only a burning desire to slam his balled up fist into Tyler's knobby nose. Mr. Evans had one arm encircled firmly around Sam's narrow waist, and the other wrapped around his neck and shoulders. Sam was pulling so hard against him that, at times, the force of Mr. Evans' counter-struggle was pulling Sam clear off his feet. Sam's eyes were flashing like a wolf's.

"Enjoy jail," he growled, his voice low and unnatural.

"Enjoy the rest of your miserable fucking life!" Tyler cursed as the bailiffs dragged him out of the courtroom through a side door.

Even after Tyler was out of his sight, Sam continued to struggle angrily against his father. He pulled violently, grunting with each attempt the get free. Mr. Evans released him and spun him around by the shoulders, gripping him firmly.

"Samuel Evans, you be quiet, and you listen to me right now!"

Sam stared straight into his father's eyes, defiantly.

"Sit down!"

Come on Sam, just listen to him, Quinn thought. Just do what he tells you to do. But he didn't. He just stood there, feet planted firmly on the floor, shoulders steady, challenging his father because he couldn't challenge Tyler. His eyes flashed wildly. Mr. Evans tightened his grip on his son's shoulders and pushed him firmly but steadily downward until his knees bent stiffly and he collapsed awkwardly onto the bench. He stared up, chin high.

"You will _never_ behave like that again! Not in public, not at home. And when I tell you to do something, you _will _obey me! And I _never_ want to hear that kind of language come out of your mouth again. In front of your mother and Quinn! You should be ashamed of yourself. We did _not_ raise you to act like that!"

Slowly, Quinn witnessed the Sam Evans she knew creep back into his eyes. He was beginning to come down from his fevered high, and he looked almost confused, like he didn't understand what had just happened or what was happening now. His shoulders slumped a bit as he seemed to physically deflate. It must have taken a lot of energy and effort to maintain that level of insanity. His eyes, flinting just moments before, were round and wide as he looked up at his dad towering over him. It was the fear of God coming back, Quinn recognized, and it was a good sign. It meant her Sam was coming back.

"Do you understand me young man?" Mr. Evans barked like a drill sergeant. Sam's eyes dropped to the floor.

"Yes sir," he mumbled dejectedly.

Mr. Evans reached out gripped Sam's chin, pulling his face up roughly and forcing him to meet his father's glare. Sam winced. His fathered had never hit him like that before, but Quinn knew he couldn't help it; it was just the way he responded to touch now. She was just beginning to get him to the point where unexpected, gentle touches didn't startle him into a panic, and even that had taken months of coaching. Seeing his son's reaction, Mr. Evans softened a bit. Quinn knew he hadn't meant to hurt him or frighten him like that. Scare him a bit, sure, and make him respect his authority, definitely; but not make him fear for his physical safety. Mr. Evans scanned his eyes and found the warm hues of guilt and fear and apology present in them. He released a deep sigh he had been holding back, and his anger, too, seemed to dissipate. He let his hand fall heavily to the top of Sam's head and ruffled his hair a bit.

"Ok, kiddo. Ok. Whadya say we get out of here?"

Sam nodded, his head still hung low in shame, and rose shakily to his feet. He turned to Quinn. His eyes were trained one her shoes, flicking up for just a moment to sheepishly meet hers. She could see the shame burning in them.

"I-I'm sorry Quinn," he muttered quietly. "I should have handled that better."

She smiled and reached out to take his hand, which hung limply at his side. He looked up at her hopefully, like he was shocked that she even wanted to be seen with him.

"I don't think less of you, Sam," she said as her hand slipped into his. He offered her a small, apologetic smile, and they headed outside for the long drive back to Ohio.

Quinn lifted herself onto an elbow to peek over Sam's shoulder, where the alarm clock on the nightstand flashed its angry red message: 2:37 am. When they had crawled into bed at 11:00, Sam had laid down on his back, holding his left arm out so she could curl up against his side and nuzzle her cheek into his shoulder. But she hadn't felt like being the dainty little girl tonight. They had found their way into a comfortable give and take relationship when it came to providing strength and comfort. When Sam had first come home from the hospital, and then when he had first come to sleep at Quinn's house, he had leaned heavily on her for support. Then, as the trial came and she felt her own supply of strength depleting, Sam was well enough to reverse the roles and care for her. Lately, she had been clinging to him desperately for support.

Tonight, though, knowing that those evil men were in jail and would never torture her or Sam or anyone else again, she felt ready to show him that she was feeling better and was regaining some of her strength. Strength was Quinn's trademark quality, but it felt different now than before. Her whole life, she had been raised to be neat and proper, a proud member of the social elite. She had learned to construct a perfect, porcelain, tearless mask that she wore even when she was breaking inside. The daughter of a prominent businessman and a wealthy socialite wasn't meant to show the cracks in her façade. But after trying to navigate this experience with Sam, no exterior in the world would be strong enough to hold back what she was feeling, and she had to learn how to excavate and share her emotions. Now, when she felt strong, it felt healthy. It didn't feel like she was putting on a show for the world, but rather like she was honestly, genuinely ok.

And she wanted to share that with the one person who had helped her find it. So she insisted that he lay on his side, and she wrapped an arm around his waist, her small breasts pressed to his back. She was much smaller than him, and the concept of spooning didn't quite work in reverse, but she clung to his back almost like when she was a child and she would throw her arms around her daddy's shoulders for a piggy back ride. When Sam held her, his chin rested on top of her head in a soft bed of blonde waves. When she held him, her nose and lips pressed into his back, just inside his shoulder blade. Still, she enjoyed the feeling of her lips against him, her gentle, even breaths warming his skin.

Three and a half hours later, though, she still couldn't sleep. Quinn brushed her hand across Sam's back, drawing a finger between the broad muscles and down the valley of his spine. His skin was smooth and glossy, with the faint lilac scent of the laundry detergent her mother used on the sheets. She followed the curvature of his spine down to the small of his back, then ran her fingers over the thick scar from where he had been stabbed. It felt strange, like a small, jagged mountain range traversing his back. At first, she expected it to feel smooth, but in fact, it was raised and bumpy and ugly, a dark purple mar against his otherwise unblemished skin.

Her hand trailed around his waist, over his hip, and slid across his firm, flat stomach. She felt for the other scar she knew was there and found it between his belly button and the waistband of the mesh gym shorts he slept in. She used her hand to cover it completely; the scar itself was just a bit smaller than the length of her hand, extending from the heel of her palm to the tip of her finger. It radiated heat and pulsed with the beat of his heart. It was totally gross, yet totally fascinating to feel the life pulsing through him so close to the surface.

She moved her hand an inch lower to relieve the heat from the scar and pressed it over the elastic waistband of his shorts. Her breath caught a bit in her throat. Not now, Quinn, not now. She would be lying to herself if she said she didn't want him. She was glad that they hadn't slept together on New Year's Eve, but still, the memory of him above her, about to enter her, replayed in her mind many times since then. Early on in their relationship, she had loved teasing him. She loved the way his face scrunched up and his feet flipped as he tried to prevent his body from reacting in an embarrassing way.

But it was too difficult now that she wanted him as badly as he wanted her. There was no longer any pleasure in teasing him because she was only teasing herself. There were so many curiosities she wanted to explore with him. She had never really felt him, never really felt a man at all, since her first time with Puck had gone down the way it had almost gone down with Sam. Her curiosity was driving her to just slip her fingers a few inches further, inside the fabric of his shorts, and see what he felt like. But it wasn't the right time. He was never this silent and still, and she knew that he was awake too.

"What are you going to say?" she asked quietly, little more than a whisper. They had started sleeping together every night instead of Quinn starting off in her own room and sneaking through the halls, but it wasn't like her mother knew about it or approved of it.

"I don't know yet," came his answer. She paused, deciding how to proceed.

"You know it's really important, right? The judge is going to highly value whatever you say."

"I know it's important. I just haven't decided yet."

"But, but Sam, our faith . . ."

"I know, Quinn, I understand. I really do. I just need some time to think about it, ok?"

"Do you want me to write something for you?"

She felt Sam's whole body tense, and she knew immediately that she had said the wrong thing. She wished she could take it back, but the words were already gone. He slid out from the arm she had wrapped around his waist and turned to face her with something like annoyance, hurt, and disappointment in his eyes. She hoped he could see the apology in hers.

"I'm not stupid, Quinn. I know everybody thinks I am. People make fun of me all the time, but I'm not. I know you're the smart one, and I've never tried to take that away from you, but I thought at the very least you understood that I'm not actually as stupid as everyone makes me out to be."

"Sam, I know you're not stupid, I'm sorry, I—"

"Why can't you understand how hard this is for me? They killed people, Quinn. They killed kids. Those people we met, they're never going to get their kids back. It's not even about me. I know what I thought I believed, and I know what the Church tells us to believe, but it's a whole lot different when you have to actually look in the faces of thirteen sets of parents whose sons are never coming home. What does the Church say to them? What am I supposed to say to them?"

"Sam, I—"

"Please, I just, I don't know what to believe, and I want to make sure I really, really think it through. I don't want to get up there and ask the judge to do something I'm not even sure I want. Try to understand, please Quinn?"

"I do."

Sam rolled back over to face the window. Not sure if he was mad at her and didn't want to be touched, Quinn tentatively reached out to lay a hand against his back. His skin had gone ice cold.


	28. Chapter 28

**Ok, sorry the last chapter got cut in half, but apparently it would have been close to 10,000 words! Not cool. Anyway, here's the rest of it. It's a bit intense, but from here on out there is lots of happiness in store for Sam (and for Quinn). For those of you who don't like the sentimental bits, be warned, they're coming. Enjoy, and as always, I appreciate your reviews! Oh, and if you're enraged, feel free to throw that in a review too!**

Chapter 28

"Please Sammy, I loved you. I know you understand that, don't you?"

Jared's words managed to fight their way out in between choked sobs. The front of his beige jumpsuit was stained with tears, and his face bore a number of nicks and cuts around the ears. He addressed himself initially to the court, but as his emotion rose, he turned to train his wet, wild eyes on Sam.

"You were the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. I wanted to take you away, remember? I didn't want to hurt you anymore. I wanted us to be together forever. Remember when I told you I loved you, Sammy, and you cried? You were so beautiful right then and I wanted us to be in that moment forever. You had the prettiest eyes when you looked at me through those tears. When I found out you were alive, I knew it was a sign that we were meant to be together. It was like the world gave my sunshine back."

Sam felt like he was on fire. Like Joan of Arc. Forced to sit there perfectly still while the flames licked at his toes, crawled up his legs, danced around his chest and consumed him. He hadn't felt this unstable since he was lying in a hospital bed, trying to hold himself together for his family while the word "Sammy" floated around his ears. At multiple times, he had begun to bring his knees up to his chest, to curl himself in a protective ball like he had done in that bed in their basement. But then he would realize he was in a suit, in a courtroom, in front of a judge, and that he needed to behave himself.

"I know you thought it hurt, Sammy, but it was all out of love. Everything I did was because I loved you."

He must have looked shell shocked, because Quinn and Kurt each wrapped an arm around him. Crazy, he's crazy, Sam reminded himself over and over again. He's sick, he doesn't understand what he's talking about. Just ignore it.

"I don't care if they kill me now," Jared all but shouted at him. "As long as you understand. I love you, Sammy, only you. However long my life lasts now, I'll spend all of it loving you. Please promise me you understand."

Sam was shaking so hard he felt like he was going to collapse. He started nodding slowly, then picked up speed, his chin bobbing uncontrollably. Anything, anything to make it stop. On seeing his answer, Jared burst into a fit of unrestrained sobbing. He leaned on the podium to prevent himself from falling. Mr. Claydis had to retrieve Jared from the stand, and deposited him next to Tyler, who pulled the weeping man into his shoulder. Seems like he still has a soft spot for his baby Jared, Sam thought.

"Would anyone else like to address the Court before it considers an appropriate sentence for these men?"

Taking a deep breath and trying to pull himself to his feet, Sam stole one final glance at his friends sitting in the gallery then stepped up to the podium.

The week that passed between the trial and sentencing was a stressful one at school. The local newspapers had reported a few details about the trial along the way—mostly just generic statements like video evidence had been presented, or the only surviving victim had testified—and everyone, both his friends and people he barely knew, cornered him in the halls to quiz him. His friends were a bit more discreet. They mostly wanted to know what it was like to testify in front of the people who had hurt him and how he was holding up emotionally. The kids he didn't know were mostly fascinated with him. They wanted to know what it was like to be shot or stabbed, and they asked to see his scars. He was like some small town celebrity. Or freak. One of the two.

Quinn and Kurt took it upon themselves to try to deflect as many people as possible. Quinn answered questions about what the trial was like, and Kurt guilt tripped the rubber-neckers into feeling bad about digging into a very traumatic part of Sam's personal life. With his friends, Sam was always polite and answered their questions as briefly but thoroughly as he felt he could. He convinced them that he was doing fine and thanked them for their concern. He had even allowed Puck to see the "totally badass" scar on his stomach. With the other students who managed to make it through Quinn and Kurt's blockade, he smiled and gave one-word answers, hoping that they would get the hint without forcing him to be outright rude.

In glee club, Mr. Schue welcomed Sam and Quinn back after their week away and congratulated them on the conviction. Sam wasn't really sure if "Congratulations, the people who tried to kill you are in jail" was something you said thank you for, so he just nodded awkwardly and sat quietly, willing the attention to be turned on anything else. Fortunately, that was Mr. Schue's way of acknowledging the situation while moving everyone along. After all, they had Regionals to prepare for, and they had a lot of work ahead of them. They would be facing Dalton Academy again, since they had tied at Sectionals. Rachel stood.

"I don't think we have anything to worry about this time, Mr. Schue. We could have beaten them easily at Sectionals. We were just all so distracted by everything with Sam that we weren't on our game."

Twelve pairs of eyes turned to glare at Rachel.

"I didn't mean it like that!" she protested.

The eyes stayed focused on her, and she sat down without another word.

"Well," Mr. Schue started, clapping his hands together excitedly. "I thought that since Sam and Quinn were supposed to sing lead for Sectionals but weren't able to, maybe they should take over at Regionals!"

Rachel's back straightened and her lips moved furiously as if she wanted to say something, but Finn clamped a hand down over hers, squeezing gently. She managed to remain in her seat this time.

Sam looked at Quinn uneasily, then back to Mr. Schue. He still loved to sing and play guitar, but it was more of a personal thing for him. Back in Tennessee, he loved to go out in the woods where no one could hear him and write songs with his guitar. He never considered himself a "singer" the way Rachel or Kurt considered themselves singers. He would just sing along with his guitar to give voice to the lyrics he had written. Occasionally he would sing a lullaby to his brother or sister, but he had never really performed before. The first time he sang in front of anyone, and the first time he got the impression he might be good at it was in the first few days of the school year when Finn had talked him into singing for Artie, Puck, and him.

He had closed his eyes for most of the song, imaging himself back in the woods in Tennessee and singing it how he would have if he were alone. When he did open his eyes, though, he noticed the three other boys glancing at each other with wide, shocked eyes. So either he was really really good or really really bad. Judging by the way they begged him to come back and sing for the entire club, he gathered that he was better than he thought he was.

Even when Finn talked him into joining, he had imagined that he would just stand around in the background and sing backup vocals. That was fine with him. He loved it, but he loved it in a way that was just for him. He never thought about music as something that made him want to get up on stage and perform in front of an adoring crowd chanting his name. Music was a way for him to express his emotions without having to tell anyone about them, or even put them in words. In that sense, he wasn't sure he understood the concept of show choir. But watching the passion pour out of Rachel when she performed on stage, he got why people liked it so much.

He was just starting to gain a bit of confidence after the duets competition and felt like he would be ok with taking on a more visible role in the club when everything went to hell. For the last few months, he had been the subject of countless newspaper articles and TV news specials. He had been the key witness in a major federal trial. And now, at least for a few days, he was all the buzz around school. The last thing he wanted to do was draw more attention to himself by jumping around on stage singing his heart out at a choir competition.

"Mr. Schue, I don't want to speak for Quinn, and I think she would be amazing if she decides to do the lead, but I think I'd rather pass the ball on this one, if that's ok with you. I'd kinda like to not be the center of attention for a while."

"No problem, Sam, understood," Mr. Schue nodded. "Quinn?"

Quinn fidgeted a bit, looking at her hands. "Can I have a little time to decide?"

"What's with everyone in this club not wanting solos anymore?" Mr. Schue asked jovially.

Rachel's hand shot up immediately, but Finn gently pulled it down.

"I, I just need to think about it."

"Ok, just til the end of rehearsal today though. We really need to get working on this stuff guys!"

When Mr. Schuester turned his back to write on the board, Sam leaned close to Quinn's ear and whispered to her.

"Why don't you want to do the solo?"

"It would probably be with Finn," she whispered back.

"Does that bother you?"

"Aren't you worried? He's my ex."

"Should I be worried?"

"No."

"Then I'm not," Sam smiled. "Unless it's the most romantic song in the world and you just can't help but rub your hands all over his hot—"

"Sam!" she whispered harshly. He smiled widely and brushed his nose against her check.

"Gross," they heard Santana complain from the row above them. Sam turned and stuck his tongue out at her.

"Really, Trouty?"

Sam just shrugged and turned back around. Santana liked to put on a big front, but she was harmless. He didn't mind when she picked on him endlessly about his mouth; he actually found it kinda sweet. Quinn's hand shot up in the air while Mr. Schue was still facing the whiteboard, and she called for his attention.

"Yes Quinn?"

"I'll take the solo," she smiled.

When rehearsal ended, Quinn and Sam were two of the first out the door. Sam was expected to spend afterschool time with his family before racing off to his delivery job from six to ten, then back to Quinn's house for bed. Before they got far, though, they were cornered by a dejected looking Rachel, along with Finn and Kurt. Sam was expecting some kind of objection to Rachel not getting the solo, or a speech about being team players and accepting that their best chance of winning was with Rachel singing lead. His arm wrapped protectively around Quinn's waist. Though he knew she could handle herself on her own, and had been doing it just fine for a long time before he ever came around, he still felt the need to protect and defend her.

"Hey," Finn started awkwardly. "So Quinn told us a little bit about what happened at the trial. That you snapped a little bit."

"Oh." Sam wasn't upset that Quinn had shared those details with their friends, it just wasn't what he was expecting to hear. "Yeah, a little bit."

"Well, we think it would be better if you had a bit more of a support system around you when you go back for the sentencing," Kurt cut in. "We know how nervous you are about it, and we think it would help if you knew that there were people there on your side."

Sam's mind wandered. It would be nice, but at the same time, he wanted to believe that he was strong enough now to do this on his own. Everyone he loved had been there for him every step of the way, and he didn't want anyone to think he was taking advantage of their sympathy or support. He wondered if a better man, a stronger man, could have done this on his own. Finn must have seen the reluctance in his eyes and understood the cause of it.

"It'll take some of the burden off of Quinn and your parents if we're there."

Sam nodded slowly. "Yeah, um, I, I'd appreciate that guys."

Now, as he stepped to the podium to address the judge with nothing but his thoughts, he was deeply grateful that his friends were sitting in the gallery. This was harder than being cross-examined, because even though he didn't have an enemy attacking his dignity, now he would have to offer his own thoughts and feelings, unprompted.

He looked back at them one more time. In perfect unison, Finn and Rachel gave him big, cheesy thumbs up signs with ridiculous smiles on their faces that almost made Sam laugh out loud. Kurt had both arms wrapped around Quinn's waist and both were smiling at him warmly. Kurt looked a bit like a kitten curled up in Quinn's lap, Sam thought. The nice kind of kitten that just knew when you could use some affection and cuddled without being coaxed to. He was such a good person. In a sense, Sam almost felt bad that he couldn't be everything Kurt had wanted him to be. Kurt deserved someone to love.

He tried to collect his thoughts. It would have taken him hours to write out a speech, and even if he had, he wouldn't have been able to stand in front of the court and read it. So instead he just went with what he had—his memory and his heart. A few of the parents of the other boys had already addressed the court. Their stories of grief and loss had been tragic, and they had all asked—some begged—for the death penalty. Sam had tried to talk to his dad about what he should ask the judge to do, but his answer was that this wasn't something he could help with; Sam would have to look in his own heart for the answer.

"Your Honor," Sam started, stuffing his hands in the pockets of Darren Fabray's slacks so they wouldn't shake, "I'm really nervous about speaking in front of you. Even after everything that happened, I'm still just a normal fifteen-year-old kid, and I never thought in my life I'd have to do something like this. I don't feel like it's my place to stand in front of you and ask you to do your job a certain way, but I know I would regret it if I said nothing."

Sam paused, trying desperately to collect himself. The judge smiled at him encouragingly. "Go ahead, son, I'm listening." Sam didn't miss the brief look the judge shot Mr. Claydis.

"Your Honor, ever since I came out of surgery alive when no one expected me to, I haven't been able to sleep. I thought I would just go home and everything would be fine, but it wasn't like that at all. Every time I closed my eyes, I would see that camera in my face, or Tyler sneering down at me. I'd feel the throbbing in my leg or all the pain from the beatings. Even if I did manage to fall asleep, every single time I'd wake up screaming from a nightmare. I wish I was stronger and could deal with it better, but so far, I just haven't been able to."

"Like you heard at trial, my family all lives in a motel room. When I came home, I turned their lives upside down. They wanted to help me, but every time I woke up screaming, I woke up my parents and my baby siblings, too. They all suffered from my nightmares and flashbacks as much as I did. I tried everything. I tried sleeping outside on the porch, and I tried keeping myself up all night doing pushups and situps. Everyone was getting worse though. My little sister was falling asleep in school and my little brother was scared of me like I was a monster. My parents are trying so hard to find work, and they would never admit it, but I was a burden on them. We thought maybe I would need to be on medication to keep me sedated. Instead, for the last few months, I've been sleeping in my girlfriend Quinn's basement so that my family can get some rest."

"The four men you're sentencing today definitely changed my life, and they definitely took something I'll never be able to get back. More than what they took from me and my family, though, they took away the children of all the people you see sitting out in the gallery. I was lucky. Because of some talented surgeons, my parents didn't have to bury me. I can't sleep, I can't eat, I have nightmares and panic attacks and agonizing pain, but I'm still here, doing my best to put the pieces back together and make something of myself. The other boys they hurt aren't coming back."

"When I tried to think about what I should ask you to do, I thought about what they deserved for what they did. If you think about the math, they took thirteen lives, maybe half of mine, and it makes sense that they should pay for it with their own. They've caused more pain than they can afford to repay. Yeah, it would definitely satisfy a vengeful streak to know that even for a second, they're feeling the same kind of pain we felt. Not the physical pain, they'll never get that. But they'll know what it felt like when they were driving me back to Ohio and I was just waiting in the trunk, knowing I was going to die. I had to say goodbye to my family and my friends and pray that they'd get along fine without me. I prayed that they would find my body so they wouldn't have to struggle not knowing if I was alive out there somewhere. That three hour drive when I knew I was going to die was the worst pain I've ever felt in my life, and if you sentence them to death, they'll feel it too."

"But then I thought maybe I was asking the wrong question, and it wasn't really about what they deserve, but about what we need. I tried to think about what we all—me, my family, the families and friends of all their victims—need to recover. That's when I realized that I needed to ask you to let them live. I'll never be able to sleep, and I'll never get better, if I know that my relief came at the cost of someone else's life. It's not fair to stand before you and ask you to trade their lives for my closure or my satisfaction at seeing them get what they deserve. I won't speak for anyone but myself, but if I'm going to recover from this, I need to know that I did it on the strength of my own mind and body, with the support of my family and friends. It's a hollow victory if I recover because I inflicted the same pain on these people and their families that they inflicted on me."

"I can't stand in front of you and say that I'm a big enough person that I've forgiven them. I haven't yet, and I'm not sure when I'll be able to. Maybe if I was one of the other victims' parents, I never would. I just know that I can't make it ok in my heart to say that my desire to see them suffer is worth four human lives. So please, Your Honor, don't kill them. We don't get anything back that they've taken from us. The only thing we get is punishment and revenge, and to me, neither of those things have the same value as knowing that we are stronger people than they are. Thank you."

Sam never felt like he wanted to cry so much in his life. He felt so sick and hollow that he was afraid if he moved to sit down, he would crumble into dust. Thank God for Rachel, who was sitting closest to the aisle. She stepped out into the aisle and gently took his hand, smiling up at him. "You did a good job, Sam," she said. Giving his hand a soft tug, she led him back to the bench where they were all seated. Sam slipped back between Quinn and Kurt, and Kurt's arms were immediately around him, his face nuzzled against his shoulder. Like a kitten, offering comfort in the only way it knew how. This time, Sam didn't feel the need to panic. There was no longer any sexual tension on Kurt's part, only a genuine desire to help a good friend. Sam allowed himself to fold in on himself, his face hovering just above his knees while Quinn rubbed his back. In a few seconds, he would pull himself together and he'd be strong again. Just not right now.

The judge then thanked everyone for their comments and announced that he would take a twenty minute recess to consider an appropriate sentence. With a sharp bang of his gavel, he was out the door, and the courtroom, open to the public this time, fell into quiet chattering. Sam regrouped and smiled at Quinn, giving her a quick kiss on the forehead.

"I'm proud of you," she offered softly, so only he could hear. He leaned down to rest his forehead against hers and closed his eyes. This would all be over soon. All he wanted to do was take Quinn home and lay in bed with her and hold her close and kiss her. She had this thing about her where her lips were warm but her breath was cool and kissing her was like opening your eyes for the first time and finding yourself in the middle of springtime in a hurricane of warm breeze and fallen magnolia petals. He would never do anything to hurt her. He would never let her go. She was too precious to lose.

When he opened his eyes, Sam noticed the look of utter confusion on Finn's face. His brow was furrowed, and he looked genuinely puzzled over something. A few times, he seemed ready to speak and drew in a breath but then closed his mouth again, apparently not finding the right words. Sam waited patiently. Finn opened his mouth again, pausing, but this time it didn't close.

"He, that guy said that, he said he loves you . . . Sam, what did they do to you?"

Ummmm.

"All rise!" Saved by the bell. Or the gavel. Well, really it was the court clerk. Whatever. Everyone's attention turned to the front of the room, and at least for now, that was a question Sam wouldn't have to answer.

"I'll be brief with my comments," the judge started, in a matter-of-fact manner. He sounded completely different than the man who called Sam "son."

"This is the most brutal crime I've seen in my time on the bench. You have ruined thirteen young and promising lives, you ruined the lives of all the people who loved them, and you tried to ruin the life of this young man who just asked me to spare you. I believe that you've failed in that regard. Before we started today, I intended to sentence you all to death. It is the only punishment fitting the crime you have committed."

"John Hightower, Jared Engles, Don Sutherland . . . you have your fifteen-year-old victim to thank for your lives. You are hearby sentenced by the federal government of the United States of America to life in prison without the possibility of parole."

"Tyler Hightower, no amount of persuasion of your victim's part could convince me that society is not best served by your execution. You led this operation, and I believe that you preyed on the weakness and vulnerability of others to pull them into your cruel game. By your actions in court last week with regards to the victim, Samuel Evans, I see that you have no remorse for your actions whatsoever. It is my hope that in the time you have left on this earth, you will see the barbarity in what you have done and will be able to make peace with yourself."

"Tyler Hightower, you are hearby sentenced by the federal government of the United States of America to death by lethal injection. You will be transferred to the federal death row complex in Terre Haute, Indiana, where you will await your punishment."

000000000000000000

Dwight felt as if fifty pounds of concrete had been lifted off of his chest. Ever since Sam went missing, it felt like it had just been one trauma after another—trying to convince the police that something was wrong and that Sam wasn't out drinking, searching the woods for what he was sure would be his son's body, praying through the night in the hospital while the surgeons operated on him, watching him panic at the sound of a pet name he had been called his whole life, finding him shivering on the porch trying to spare his family from his nightmares, considering medicating him, watching him pack a bag and head off to his girlfriend's for who knows how long, the trial, the video, the cross-examination, watching Sam lunge at that man like an animal, the sentencing. When would it be over? He prayed that it would be right now.

Maybe Sam could even come home soon. Well, not home, back to the motel, but back to them at least. He seemed to be doing well sleeping at Quinn's. Maybe it was selfish, but Sam was getting older, he only had two years of high school left, and Dwight wanted him back. He looked over to his son, who was smiling stupidly at his girlfriend. He hadn't seen that smile on Sam's face in a while, the one that paralyzed him completely until it passed. Maybe that meant it was all over now, and finally, they could get back to some sense of normalcy.

Sam's friends from school filed out of the row and grouped together in the courthouse lobby. The tall dopey one looked completely confused about something, and the smaller boy was diligently trying to explain something to him. Quinn stepped over to their small group, leaving Sam alone with Dwight and Mary. They each wrapped an arm around him and pulled him into a tight embrace. Dwight hated how thin his son felt, how he could feel his ribs when his hand brushed across his back, but Sam wasn't nearly as tense as he had been, and it felt good just to hold him.

Dwight pulled away when he felt a small hand on his elbow. He turned and looked down. It was a familiar face, a small woman with glasses, but he couldn't quite place her. Ah, yes, that's it, he realized. It was the woman who was talking to Sam the other day, after the brutal cross-examination. She was the mother of one of the victims.

"Mr. Evans?"

"Yes," he smiled. "You are Mrs. . . ."

"Meyers. Cindy Meyers," she answered, extending a hand. "I am, I was, I . . ."

"Jeremy's mother," Dwight filled in, shaking her hand warmly. He was actually surprised that she was coming up to them. Her husband had been one of the parents to ask for the death penalty, and after what Sam had said, and the judge sided with him . . . well, Dwight wondered what it was exactly that she wanted to say.

"Yes, yes. I'm Jeremy's mother."

Slowly, a few people at a time, the other parents began to file in behind her. Dwight's eyes narrowed a bit, and as discreetly as possible, he stepped in front of Sam. The kid had been through a lot already, surely they understood that? And he had been so kind and understanding to all of them the other day. Dwight hadn't stepped in the other day when each of the families took their turn using Sam as a stand in for their lost sons, even though he thought it was going to be too much for Sam to handle emotionally. Sam had put their needs above his own, and if they were going to attack him now for saying what was in his heart, Dwight wouldn't let it happen. He was strong, but he was just a kid, and he didn't deserve to be attacked again after everything else he'd had to suffer through. God, Dwight begged, when can we go home?

"Mr. Evans—"

"Dwight," he corrected. He hoped it didn't come across too sharply, but the suspicion was clear in his face.

"Dwight," she smiled. "We, um, we all have something we'd like to give you," she said, gesturing to the rest of the group. She reached into her purse awkwardly and pulled out a small white envelope. Dwight's brow furrowed in confusion. She held the envelope out to him awkwardly, almost apologetically, and he accepted it from her, looking to see if he could spot the answer to his questions in her face.

Slowly, he opened the envelope. His eyes widened.

"We, um, we wanted to do something for you and your family," she said shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other. Dwight closed the envelope and held it back out to her.

"That's, that's very kind of you, all of you. But we can't accept that. It's just, it's too much. Thank you very, very much," he said emphatically, "We just can't." Once the envelope was firmly in Cindy Meyers' hand, he turned to go, taking a confused looking Sam by the elbow and hurrying him away.

"Dwight, wait," the small hand was gripping his shoulder, harder than he thought this demure woman was capable of. He turned. They had all encircled behind her.

"Please," she stated simply. "Please accept this from us. We, uh, almost all of us had money put aside in funds for our sons to go to college, and um, well it's just been sitting there all those years. We never knew what to do with it and we just couldn't take it out to do something useful with it because that meant, that meant that Jeremy was really gone," the tears were forming in her eyes. "We got together to talk about it, and we all love Sam. He's such a good boy. We decided that the best way to honor our sons' memories would be to help him grow up as happy and healthy as we possibly can."

"I, I don't know what to say," Dwight was choking on his words. This was the closest he had come to crying since he was sitting in that waiting room, waiting for a doctor to come through those doors and tell him that his son had died. This was a different feeling though. Then, it had been a feeling of utter desperation, like the world was about to tear his most precious possession away from him. This time, they were tears of hope. Like the sky just opened up and everything was a bit brighter and a bit clearer.

"You don't have to say anything," she said, handing the envelope back to him. The envelope containing a check for fifty thousand dollars. "Please. Just take your kids and get them somewhere safe and comfortable. Get Sam in therapy. Make sure they have enough food while you get back on your feet. You've all suffered enough. So take the money, it'll keep you going til you find work. And when you look at your son, just remember that he's a gift from God, and maybe you can say a prayer for us."

"I, I, thank you, just thank you!" Dwight stammered, the tears hot on his cheeks. Cindy stepped forward to shake his hand, but he pulled her into a tight hug. He gripped her close and choked out a few joyous laughs into her shoulder. Sam, still not exactly sure what was going on, stood awkwardly rocking back and forth on his heels as Dwight grasped and shook the hand of every mother and father lined up around the courthouse lobby, thanking them.

"Come here, sweetheart," Cindy opened her arms wide and he obediently stepped into them, leaning down so she could press a kiss into his hair. "Everything's going to be ok now, baby. Everything's going to be ok."


	29. Chapter 29

**Ok, here's what you've all (or maybe like two of you) have been waiting for! The last chapter, and some serious Sam and Quinn quality time. Warnings: most of this chapter will be pure smut. If you love that, read on! If not, skip this one and stick around for the epilogue. (Although if you're not comfortable with M, you should NOT be reading this story in the first place!) I'm aware that it's all very awkward, but I hope that it's awkward in the enjoyable way, and not awkward in the awkward way. Enjoy, and as always, I dearly appreciate your reviews!**

Chapter 29

Sam lay flat on his back, staring up at the low paneled basement ceiling that had provided the backdrop of his dreams and nightmares for months. Quinn lay on her back beside him, shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip, thigh to thigh. Sam hadn't realized how little he truly had in terms of material possessions until he went to pack. At Quinn's house, he had a few pairs of jeans, some t-shirts, two sweaters Kurt had given him, socks, an old pair of sneakers nearly destroyed with wear, a week's supply of underwear, shampoo, a toothbrush, deodorant, a razor, and his letter jacket. Since at any given time he was wearing about a third of his wardrobe, the rest fit easily into his backpack. In a few hours, Quinn would drop him off at his family's new apartment, and he and Quinn would go back to being a normal teenage couple that saw each other at school and on weekends.

His parents had been very careful in budgeting out the money they had newly acquired. They had never been wasteful people, but their recent hardship had taught them that even a pot of gold in the sum of fifty thousand dollars could be gone in the blink of an eye if they weren't cautious. For a week, his mother had spent a few hours an evening at the public library, searching the Internet for apartment listings rather than taking on the expense of a broker. She had carefully compiled a list of addresses, phone numbers, rental prices, and other details into a neat catalogue, then called each number to schedule a viewing. After another week of surveying apartments, his parents had settled on a small, one bedroom apartment in Lima Heights. It wasn't the greatest neighborhood, but it was safe, it was close enough to the high school and elementary school that Sam could plausibly walk his siblings to school in the morning, and at four hundred dollars a month, it was affordable.

Once they had signed a rental agreement—they had also been careful to find a month-to-month lease—they took Sam to see their new home. It was small, definitely, but compared to the motel room, it was a palace. The door opened into a combined kitchen and living room that was barely large enough to hold a rectangular kitchen table that could conceivably seat six and a pullout couch. Despite its size, it had a fresh coat of paint, a large picture window that let in streams of light, and felt as clean as an older apartment could feel. The bedroom was about the same size as the living room and had closets. It comfortably held a queen bed, a large dresser, and a desk. Between the two rooms was a perfectly clean and adequate bathroom.

When they had finished giving him the grand tour, his parents explained that they would first try sleeping with the two of them and Stacy in the bedroom, and Sam and Stevie on the pullout couch. Sam had been doing much better with his night terrors, but if they became a problem again, he and Stacy would switch, so that hopefully the closed doors would prevent the other children from waking.

"You loved sharing a room with Stevie back in Tennessee," his dad offered, almost apologetically, "It'll be almost just like that."

Before leaving the apartment that would become their new home, his parents asked Sam what he thought. The shame they had expressed when moving their children into the motel room was gone, but they still seemed sheepish. They seemed worried that he would be disappointed with their new living situation, given the amount of money they had received.

"It's perfect," Sam answered, giving them one of his patented megawatt smiles. And he wasn't lying for their benefit, either. With the exception of missing Quinn, he was going to love being back with his family again.

The other major expense his family would be incurring with their new fortune was weekly therapy for Sam. His dad had placed a call to Dr. Allen Iveres, the doctor they had taken him to when the night terrors first started. Undoubtedly feeling sorry for Sam and his family, the doctor, who had expertise in sexual assault and trauma, had agreed to see Sam at a reduced rate of one hundred dollars an hour. If he went to a weekly session, as his parents wanted him to, they would be spending the same amount per month on therapy as they would be paying in rent. Sam felt immensely guilty that they were spending so much of what they had on him, but his dad had been quick to remind him of how they came by the money in the first place.

"You heard Mrs. Meyers. Those families gave us this money because they want to try to make things better for you in a way they couldn't make things better for their own sons. Don't you think it would be rude for us to accept the money and then not use it how they intended us to?" his dad had asked.

Sam supposed he was right and nodded. He was nervous about it though. He was happy with the progress he'd made on his own and was afraid that if the doctor started digging around and bringing all his feelings to light, he'd have to accept the fact that he had buried rather than resolved them. Everyone always said that it would get worse before it got better, but things were getting better. He was going to be living with his family again, he was sleeping ok, and even his grades were improving somewhat from the dismal state they'd fallen to in the last few months. He hoped that the stress of exploring emotions or whatever you were supposed to do in therapy wouldn't undo all of those small luxuries he had attained.

Whining a little and breaking out the pouty-lipped puppy face he tried so hard not to use unless it was necessary (or with Quinn), he managed to get a one-week stay on beginning therapy until after his sixteenth birthday. He wasn't asking for a lot, he just wanted to have a normal day. Ultimately, it ended up being a much happier day than he expected, and looking back on the more traditional birthday parties he'd had growing up, he would still pick out his sixteenth as his fondest. At school, he hadn't told anyone that it was his birthday, and just as he wanted, with the exception of a few quiet "Happy Birthdays" from his closest friends, no one mentioned it. Still, though, the day went smoother than most, with next to no bickering or drama in glee club. His mom made all his favorites for dinner—grilled chicken, brown rice, mushrooms, and broccoli—and for once, no one complained about being forced to eat his beloved health foods. They were all so used to hotplate rice, beans, and noodles, that Sam's normally bland choices tasted like the richest, most indulgent meal they'd ever had.

After dinner, Quinn, Kurt, Rachel, and Finn stopped by the motel room. His mom had also bought a small cake, more for their visitors than Sam, who generally didn't like sweets, and they all sat around on the porch laughing and shoveling forkfuls of the fluffy concoction. For the first time in a long time, everyone he loved—his mom and dad, his little brother and sister, Quinn, and his three best friends—all seemed genuinely happy. Not like they were putting on brave smiles for him, or indulging in the sickly smiles of revenge for his attackers, but simple, genuine happiness. Kurt was even dishing on the curly-haired boy from Dalton Academy he was making googly eyes with at Regionals. That feeling of comfort and security was distracting Sam from the conversation, and he realized that he was probably smiling dopily into space. When his friends finally got his attention, Finn and Rachel went to retrieve something from Finn's car in the parking lot.

_His guitar. _

And he knew it was his because of the stickers wearing down on the case and the mismatched strings he had carefully strung and tuned himself. Before everything had happened, he would stop by to visit it in the pawn shop every once in a while, mostly to check to see if it was still there. It wasn't fancy, and he couldn't imagine anyone loving that guitar the way he did, but it had gotten him fifty bucks, which at the time had been food money for a week. He looked up at Finn and Rachel with wide, awestruck eyes. He hadn't been expecting a gift for his birthday at all, from anyone, and especially not something so, so . . . perfect.

"You, you guys bought my guitar back?"

"Well, we all did," Rachel chirped. "Everyone in the glee club."

"Yeah, we know how much you loved that thing," Finn added. "So we all threw in a few bucks."

Sam stared down at the guitar in his lap, fiddling with and tuning the strings so that no one would see the tears building in his eyes before he could blink them away. When he was confident that he had his emotions under control, he looked up.

"Thank ya'll so much. This . . . it means so much to me."

"We know," Rachel smiled.

"Sammy," Stacy whined in her eight-year-old, pay-attention-to-me voice, "Are you gonna play for us?"

"Sure, princess," he said, leaning over to kiss the top of her head and ruffle her hair.

Propping the instrument across his thighs, he began plucking easily at the strings, his long fingers sliding over the frets as if he were caressing them like a lover. Rachel and Quinn filled in with the vocals. 

_Little darlin', it's been a long, long lonely winter_

_Little darlin', if feels like years since it's been here_

_Here comes the sun_

_Here comes the sun_

_And I say, it's all right_

Now, two days after his birthday and almost four weeks since the end of the trial and sentencing, Sam would be reuniting with his family. It was bittersweet, he thought, turning his face to the side to stare at Quinn, staring up at the ceiling. He'd be getting his family back. But at the same time, he wanted Quinn to be his family, too, someday.

"Whatcha staring at?" Quinn asked, feeling his gaze on her without turning hers away from the ceiling.

"Just you," he murmured.

"_Just_ me?"

"You."

Still laying on her back, she turned her head in his direction. They lay side by side, noses touching, staring into each other's eyes. It was weird, looking at each other from this close. All he could see of her was the honey-green blur of her eyes. Like kissing with your eyes open, Sam thought. But then again, why didn't people kiss with their eyes open? Right there, an inch away from him, was everything that had first drawn him to Quinn. The way the afternoon sunlight streamed through the window and illuminated the green flecks in her honey eyes. The way it shone in her golden hair. She was mesmerizing.

"Keep your eyes open," he whispered, and leaned in to press his lips to hers. She was soft, so soft, and inviting. Neither one of them moved to deepen the kiss. Instead, they laid still, lips touching, eyes exploring. When she blinked, her eyelashes brushed his and she pulled away, giggling.

"Sam Evans, you are the weirdest boy I know," she exclaimed.

He frowned slightly, "I thought that's what you loved about me?"

"It is!" she laughed, "But why on earth did you want to do that?"

"I don't know," he replied honestly. "It just doesn't make a whole lot of sense, ya know? I'm kissing you because I love you and I adore you and I'm passionate about you. Why shouldn't you be able to see all that? If there's one time you should be able to see my soul, it's when I'm kissing you, right?"

"Only you," she said with a smile.

Rolling off of her back, she lifted herself so that she was laying directly on top of him. Her hands curled against his sides, and her head fit easily into the hollow of his collarbone. She breathed him in. Warmth, boy, and that lilac laundry detergent. It was becoming something like his signature scent. His strong arms wrapped around her, one hand gently pressing her lower back, the other holding her head to his chest. He was breathing so evenly, his chest rising and falling so smoothly, that after ten minutes of stillness, Quinn couldn't tell if he had fallen asleep.

"Sam?" she pulled back to look at him. His eyes were open.

"Mhm?"

"Oh, nothing. I just thought maybe you fell a—"

Cupping the back of her head and lacing his fingers into her hair, he pulled her face down inches from his, then raised himself to close the last inch of space between them. He covered her lips with his and reveled in the warmth that her small body was able to produce on top of him. A soft gasp escaped her when he captured her bottom lip between his and ran his tongue across it. Her chapstick tasted like bubblegum. He was fighting hard not to react in a way that would embarrass him, but the way her mouth melted when she parted her lips to allow him to enter her was making the heat rise in his bones.

Quinn felt the blush spreading across her cheeks. There was a time when she could make out with Sam and torture him with her chilled responses, but that time had passed. She would have to stop soon or she wouldn't be able to stop at all. But the way he moved against her lips and tongue was lighting her body on fire. He was aggressive, but not in the wet, sloppy, tonsil probing way Finn and Puck were. They kissed her like they wanted to devour her, like she was an object of their desire for them to consume until every last piece of her was gone. Sam kissed her like he was exploring her, experimenting with her, tasting her; like he wanted her to be able to explore and experiment and taste him too. She had always felt like boys wanted to take from her. With Sam, it was like he was offering himself to her, and wagering his whole heart that she would take him.

Quinn's elbows dug into Sam's chest as she used them to prop herself up. When she pulled back to take a breath, Sam knew she would be able to see the desire clouding his eyes. He couldn't help it. Her pale cheeks were flushed a rosy pink, her gently waving hair was mused, her eyes hooded, and that happy little yellow cardigan he loved so much had slipped down on her shoulder, exposing a small patch of smoldering skin. He reached up tentatively and slipped his fingers between the yellow cotton and her shoulder. She was burning. Running his hand along her arm, he pushed the cardigan down further until her arm was free of the sleeve.

Sitting up against the headboard, Sam wrapped his arms around Quinn's waist and pulled her tightly into his lap. He drew her close and pressed his lips to that newly exposed swath of skin. His mouth trailed hotly down her arm, inhaling the summer peach scent of her body wash. Quinn looked down at him, fascinated. She had always been so utterly in control of herself that she could turn the faucet of emotion on or off at will. She had experienced sexual desire before, and frustration. Especially since Beth's birth, everything had become especially sensitive down there. But this feeling was different. It was like when she looked down at him, she wanted to be part of him, and wanted him to be part of her.

After pressing a kiss to the crease of her elbow, he trailed his fingers over the strap of her dress. He looked up at her, pausing while his eyes begged her permission. She blinked and drew in a breath, biting down on her lower lip shyly. His fingers pushed the strap down her shoulder and his open mouth immediately covered the spot where the strap had previously lain. She felt his tongue on her skin and gentle suckling. Quinn gasped and gathered her hair over her other shoulder, out of his eyes. She shrugged out off her cardigan, which was still dangling from one arm.

Sam's lips traveled over her collarbone as his other hand reached to push down the remaining dress strap. By this point, Quinn could feel him distinctly between her legs. And the fragile cotton of her dampening panties was doing nothing to protect the delicate flesh beneath it from the rough friction of denim. She wriggled herself carefully, trying to discretely free herself from the deliciously torturous rubbing. But Sam trapped her. Wrapping his left arm firmly around her butt and his right around her back, he pulled her small body flat against his chest. His lips moved lightly over the soft skin at her throat while his fingers sought out the tiny clasp and zipper at the back of her dress. A faint whimper escaped her lips.

The zipper crawled slowly down her back until she felt his hand pause at the base of her spine. The kisses and suckles at her neck stopped, and Sam leaned back, resting his head against the wall. Quinn placed her hands on his chest and supported herself in his lap as he slowly peeled her dress down away from her chest. Sam's lips parted and he drew in a shaky breath. Quinn blushed as he stared at her, unmoving. He had seen her naked before, sort of, but everything had happened so fast and he had been so drunk that he really hadn't taken the time to drink in the sight of her perfect form. Now, with the helpless dress pooled around her waist, Sam couldn't help but notice that she was absolutely spectacular.

He slipped the dress up over her head and let it fall to the floor beside them, leaving her exposed, straddling his lap in just a pair of cotton panties that were no longer doing much to conceal her. He touched the trembling fingertips of his right hand to the side of her breast. They were small but full and exquisite, the pert pink buds of her nipples already tugging with her arousal. Brushing his thumb over one, he was fixated and couldn't wait anymore. He lowered his head to her breast, his lips curling around her nipple, sucking it in slowly. His tongue flicked across the hard nub, eliciting a moan from her, and he enjoyed the feel of its roughness against his sensitive lips. He grazed his teeth along it and gently tugged. When he pulled back to examine it, he was fascinated by the ruddy color it had turned under his manipulations.

His left hand inched its way down her navel.

"Sam?" came her timid whisper.

He hadn't meant to respond with a grunt, but apparently it was all his poor, fevered brain could muster.

"I, I feel naked."

"You are naked," he murmured, closing his eyes and returning his lips to the pale skin between her breasts. She twisted her fingers into his hair and gently tugged his head back so that he was forced to look up at her. He eyes were foggy, and he looked as if he was a child on Christmas morning being told he needed to wait until after dinner to open presents. Distracted by her body displayed before him, he was having an impossible time concentrating.

"Yeah, but . . . but you're not, and I feel—"

Before Quinn could even finish her sentence, Sam scooped her up in his arms and shimmied off the bed. Depositing her gently on her back in a cloud of pillows, he tore his shirt up over his head and made quick work unbuckling his belt. Any insecurities he had about his body or his scars flew out the window in the interest of getting back to his beautiful treasure as quickly as possible. Unbuttoning his worn jeans and pushing them down over his hips, he stood before her in a pair of black boxer briefs that clung tightly to his painfully hard erection.

Quinn pressed her thighs together. Everything about him was perfect. The way his hair fell across his eyes. The way his pale skin flushed across his collarbone. The way his abs clenched tightly when he was aroused. The long line of muscle running down his thighs. The curvature of his ass. His substantiality and hardness. The unintentional pout of his lips. The way he looked at her like she was the only thing he could see and ever would see. The tingling was becoming unbearable, and she didn't want to touch herself, but if he didn't get back in bed with her soon . . .

Sam crawled back onto the bed, easing himself between Quinn's legs. Resting on his knees, he held his hips above hers as he cradled her to kiss her deeply. He could feel the heat and moisture radiating from her core against his abdomen. Unable to stand the deprivation of his touch, Quinn linked her heels around his lower back and pulled herself up to meet his hips. The incredible pressure of his hard length against her sopping panties nearly made her scream. He groaned into her mouth as his body ground into hers. Shaking his head like a horse, he pulled back. His pupils were dilated. Not yet. Not yet.

His mouth trailed hot, open kisses down Quinn's navel, savoring the taste of her. She was slim, but so, so soft, and there was still just a tiny bit of pudge from where she had carried a baby below her belly button. He paused when he reached the thin band of her panties, noticing that she was trembling slightly.

"Are you ok?" he asked, looking up. He had grown enough in the past few months that he was able to separate sexuality as a feeling and a concept from his only experience with it. But what stuck with him was that he never, ever wanted Quinn to feel fear or pain with him.

Quinn nodded quickly, biting her lower lip and hoping that he would keep going without her having to ask him to. Gently gripping her upper thighs in his large hands, he parted her legs. The fabric of her panties was so thoroughly dampened that he could clearly see the outline of her delicate lips through them. He traced his finger down between them and his breath caught at the whine she produced in response.

Tucking his thumbs into her panties, Sam lifted her hips from the bed and slid the last remaining article of clothing down over her knees. When the panties had been discarded, he repositioned himself to kneel in front of her and placed his hands on her knees. Very slowly, he pressed her thighs down to the bed until she was laid bare before him, her pink, glistening folds spreading like flower petals. Sam knew his brain wasn't built to handle this. He was so hard he felt like he would break, but at the same time, he was curious and fascinated. He had never really seen her before, well, any woman for that matter, except in like health books but that was . . . no, not even close to the same . . . she was spectacular.

Quinn was shivering all over and fighting the urge to cover her breasts. She felt so open and vulnerable, and it was scary, but the way Sam looked at her, that look like he was absolutely amazed by her, made her want to _be_ that very thing that he thought was so incredible.

Sam dipped a finger between her labia, watching as the full, blushing flesh responded to his touch. He spread them easily and ran his finger over the small, engorged nub he found between them, sending Quinn into a fit of whimpers and shaking. Ohh, so that's what . . . ok . . . yeah, good to know. Leaning down between her legs, his lips inches from her body, Sam inhaled her. The scent was so completely feminine, yet with a heat that betrayed her desire, and Sam couldn't help but think that this is what a woman was meant to smell like, not flowers or cupcakes or whatever. It made him want her so badly.

Cautiously, he let his tongue flick out over her folds. He was surprised to find that she tasted exactly how she smelled—sweet and girly and needy. A bit bolder, her pressed his tongue between her lips and traced it along the length of her, from the tightness of her opening to that pretty pink pearl that made her scream when touched. Loving the powerful way it made her react, Sam wrapped his lips around her clit and sucked, rubbing his tongue against the sensitive surface. This time, Quinn really did scream and her legs began to shake. Cool.

"Sam," she gasped, tapping lightly at the back of his head nestled between her legs.

But he was too distracted by the amazing way her body was responding. The pleasure was too intense, too extreme, too fast, too sudden, and Quinn was beginning to panic as she felt her body spinning out of her control. She tapped him harder, faster, trying to grab his attention.

"Sam!" she finally shouted at him, "Sam!" She tapped the back of his head so rapidly that if she hit him any harder, it would hurt him. When he pulled away, the relief was immediate and Quinn sighed.

Sam looked up at her, eyes wide with shock, lips glistening adorably with her wetness. Quinn wondered if Sam would ever grow out of looking like a puppy, but she secretly hoped not.

"What's wrong?" he asked, a note of fear creeping into his voice. "Did I hurt you?"

"No. No," she panted, trying to regain her breath. "Just, that's really, that's really intense. Too good."

"Too good?" Sam asked, confused. Quinn knew a boy couldn't possibly understand the concept of too good, but he would have to learn.

"Yes. Too good. You, um, you have to go slower. Be gentle with it. It's really sensitive and if you don't build up to it, it's like everything crashes."

Sam paused, thinking. "Isn't that good, though?"

"No, Sam."

Determined to get it right, Sam ran the concept through his mind one more time and lowered his mouth back to his target, this time licking long trails along her labia and slowly circling her clit. He was rewarded this time with soft, close-lipped moans and her fingers tugging appreciatively at his hair. His eyes flicked up at her as his tongue and lips built a fire within her. Damn, this boy was freakin' hot. He wasn't trying to be seductive; if he would have tried, it probably would have been laughable. But the way he looked at her, blue-green eyes burning passionately up at her through strands of light blond hair, searching for the reaction on her face, wanting to make sure he was pleasing her properly, it all made him undeniably, irresistibly sexy.

Quinn's hands flew behind her head to clench into the bed sheets when Sam's long middle finger pressed slowly, deeply inside her. She wriggled desperately, struggling to not clench her thighs around his face. His finger swirled around inside her while his tongue flicked slowly over just the tip of her over-stimulated button. Looking up at her for her approval, Sam eased a second finger in, stretching her. Quinn writhed, on the verge of tears; not tears of pain, but tears of confusion at not being able to control herself. She wasn't used to being pushed so close to the edge. She wasn't used to having an edge. Or she kept herself so far from it that it might as well have not existed at all. She kept herself safe, under control, always. But she was under his control now. And it was the realization that this was ok, that she was safe to let go with him and let him control her, that made her give herself up to him. She was crashing.

"Sam," she panted, gasping for air, "Sam I, I . . ." but it was way too late for words as her orgasm ripped through her, throwing her tiny frame.

Sam stayed with her until she calmed, then pulled back, lifting himself up on his knees. He was kind of a little bit confused. Was that . . . what he thought it was?

"Quinn?" he asked quietly, as if he was waking her from a deep sleep. He watched the rise and fall of her breasts. "Was that?"

She nodded, holding her arms out for him to crawl into. "Come kiss me."

Sam clambered up into her arms, resting his head against her breast. He breathed in deeply as she ran a hand through his hair, her other hand caressing his cheek. He was glad they were taking a break, even if just for a few minutes, because he felt like if his heart beat any faster, he would explode. Quinn dipped two fingers under his chin and raised his face up to meet hers. Keeping her eyes open and gazing into his, she pressed a gentle kiss to his moist lips.

"I love you, Sam," she breathed, smiling against his lips.

"I love you too," he whispered.

"I want to feel you."

Sam sat up again, his back pressed against the headboard. He watched as Quinn's hand brushed down his tightened torso and paused at the waistband of his boxer briefs. He had seen her, all of her, so there was no longer any point in trying to hide the hardness barely concealed under the stretching fabric. Quinn peeled back the elastic waistband an inch, allowing him to spring free against his stomach. Wow, um, yeah. This was pretty much a first for her too. When she and Puck had sex, she was drunk, and about a minute after saying ok, he was inside her. Then when he was done, his pants were back on and that was that. Fascinated, she reached into his shorts and wrapped her fingers around his shaft. Sam tensed and groaned, thumping his head back against the wall. He was so hard, so hot under her touch; she was amazed how intensely his body could react, and that it was all for her.

"Take these off please?" she asked shyly.

He stood next to the bed and hooked his thumbs in the band of his underwear. A blush rose in his cheeks and he fiddled awkwardly, stretching and releasing the elastic. He stared at his feet.

"Can you, um, could you look away for a second?"

"Seriously?" Quinn asked, the surprise clear in her voice.

"I'm kinda a little embarrassed."

"Sam, no," she answered, trying not to laugh and make him blush deeper. "You're fine. Come here."

She sunk a single finger into his shorts and tugged him over so that he was standing between her knees. Gripping his hips, she slid her hands down the length of his thighs, pushing the boxers down with them. He was clearly uncomfortable, but he used every ounce of his will power to stand still and not cover himself up. Quinn had opened up, made herself vulnerable to him so that he could explore and enjoy her with his eyes; he would have to be just as brave and give himself to her. She wasn't making it easy though, the way she examined him. Her hands rested lightly on his lower back as her eyes scanned slowly from the mess of unkempt blond hair. down over his broad shoulders and chest, down the line of his abs, past the jagged scar, down the hard arrow of his hips, over the long thick erection that was so ready for her, down his thighs, his knees, all the way to his toes that still flipped when he was nervous.

"I don't disgust you?"

"What? What are you talking about? You're the hottest guy in school, you know that."

"I mean, because of," his eyes flickered down to the thick purple line traversing his lower stomach.

"Oh. No, Sam, of course not." She placed a hand on his shoulder and pulled him close to her, whispering in his ear in a low voice. "You look hot as fuck right now."

Sam looked at her, stunned. He had never heard Quinn use that kind of language before, and it was, well, really sexy. He crouched down, reaching for his wallet in the back pocket of his jeans, where he kept a condom just in case someday he got very, very lucky. Standing again, he handed it to Quinn. He looked down at his erection, standing straight up, as Quinn tore the foil and slowly rolled the latex down onto him. The sensation was incredible, and he prayed for the strength and reserve to make this last, even if it was just for a little bit.

Quinn crawled back onto the bed, laying on her back as Sam climbed over her. He held himself up on elbows and knees, his hips hovering between her legs. He reached a hand behind her head and lowered his mouth to hers as he rubbed his cock between her lips. She was still so wet, or had gotten wet again. Amazing. She flinched and shivered when the head made contact with that sensitive nub again. After positioning himself at her entrance, Sam wrapped his other arm under Quinn's lower back, pulling her tight against his body.

"You're sure you want to do this?" he asked, looking her straight in the eyes.

"Yessss," she moaned.

Very slowly, he began to press into her. This time, he studied her face for any signs of pain. Every time her nose started to wrinkle slightly, he stopped and waited until she relaxed. Those moments were rare, though, and for the most part, he sunk into her easily. She was so wet and well-worked from his fingers and his lips that she didn't seem to have any pain at all.

When he felt his hips lay flush with hers, he exhaled and tried to relax his tightly coiled body. His lips were trembling, so he pressed them against her neck to get them to stop. If he moved or she moved even a fraction of an inch, he was sure it would all be over before they even started. Earlier, when he was toying with his fingers inside her, she had felt hot and slick. After her orgasm, though, she felt much softer inside, still tight, but more like their bodies were melting together than colliding.

"Are you ok?" he murmured into her neck, not sure if he had formed complete words. She replied with a moan and dug her nails into his back. Lifting her legs, she wrapped them around his lower back and interlocked her heels. The shift in position opened up her hips and slid him an inch deeper inside of her, making him shudder. He pulled his face back from her neck and bit into his lip harshly, trying to keep his body responsive to his brain's commands.

When he felt like he was as close to under control as he would ever be, he pulled his hips back until only the head remained inside her then pressed back in. Goddamn she felt amazing. He tried again and began to establish a slow, steady rhythm with her. Sam picked his head up from Quinn's shoulder and stared down between their bodies. He had never really watched porn on the internet because his family didn't have a computer, and when they did, his dad would have beaten him to death with a Bible if he got caught, but now he understood why some guys were addicted to it. She looked so tight around him, like her body was stretching unnaturally to accommodate him, gripping him like a vice, and yet his shaft pumped in and out of her easily. He could see the clear, sticky evidence of her arousal coating him. Her lips were spread so wide around him that he could clearly see the bead of her clit standing just above his pumping cock, aching to be touched.

He reached down to touch it, but as soon as his fingers made contact, Quinn wailed and pulled his hand away.

"Don't you dare!" she groaned.

"Why?" he pouted.

"Remember, when, we, talked, about, too, much?" she panted, gasping for breath between his thrusts, "Well, that's, too, much."

Sam obediently placed his hand somewhere more innocuous, tangling it in her hair. Quinn's legs wrapped around his waist tighter and her nails were leaving angry red welts on his back. Even in her sexual delirium, though, she was conscious of avoiding his scar. Sam wasn't quite so considerate and sucked at her neck and collarbone so feverishly that the marks he was leaving were more than tiny love nips.

Sam was proud of himself for holding out this long—twenty minutes! he noted—but he was close, so very dangerously, painfully close. Quinn was writhing beneath him, her small breasts bouncing with each thrust, and he knew he would only be able to hang on for another minute, if that. What the hell, he thought, the devil passing into him. He slipped his hand down between them again and sought out that awesome little button with his thumb. Finding it, he began to rub the poor thing raw, fucking her with all of his strength.

"Sam! Sam! Goddamn you! I, I—"

Her pussy clenched around him unmercifully as she came, and he couldn't stand it any longer. Letting himself go, he shot into her powerfully then collapsed on top of her in a heaving, shaking mess. His broad frame covered her completely, and he hoped he wasn't crushing her, but he couldn't move.

"I hate you Sam Evans," Quinn groaned after a minute, drawing her fingers along his spine.

"You do?" he asked, picking himself up a bit from the bed to look at her intently.

"No," she sighed, picking at a few strands of hair that were sticking to his forehead with sweat. "When you make me feel like that, I hate you pretty much means I love you."

Sam was too weak for a giant smile, but he could manage a lopsided grin. "I love you too, Quinn."

Groaning, Sam rolled himself off of Quinn and disposed of the condom. It took less than a minute for him to handle that, but it was a minute that he hated not touching her. Lying back down on his side, Sam grabbed Quinn by the waist and the butt and pressed her tightly against him. She was limp like a doll, and her body easily curved to form against his. He pressed his forehead to hers and allowed their noses to brush. She could tell that something serious had passed over him by the way his normally bright eyes darkened.

"You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen in my life, Quinn," he said, taking her right hand and twisting the little gold ring on it. "You're still gonna let me marry you someday?" In about an hour, their little honeymoon would be over, and he needed to know.

"Yes, Sam," she smiled. "Someday, I will let you marry me."

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**Well folks, that's it! I know this story started off as one thing and turned into something very different, but I appreciate all of you who stuck with it as it grew from a plan for four chapters of smut into, well, this. Tune back in for the epilogue, which I promise will be way more than a neat little wrap up. **


	30. Chapter 30: Epilogue

**Oh boy, so the epilogue was longer than expected, but I think you'll like it! Thanks to everyone who's been reading along the way, and ESPECIALLY those who have been reviewing. Your reviews let me know that there's someone out there who likes what I do, and that I should keep going! I'm going to take a break for a bit after this, but as long as there's enough interest, I'll start my next Sam story soon. It'll be sad, but cute/sad like the later chapters of this story, not scary/sad like the early chapters, with lots of happy woven in. I think that one will be attract a wider audience, too. Anyway, in my initial plan for this story, Sam was going to die, so it's entirely due to reader/reviewer participation that this story lasted past seven or eight chapters. Evidence that your comments really do make a difference to me. Applause all around! Thanks again, and I hope you enjoy the last installment of Coming Home Again.**

**Edit 8/17: I see from my traffic stats that people are still reading this story. I still appreciate the reviews even though it's complete, so when you finish, please drop a note. Thanks!**

Epilogue

It was a gray, misty day in late December, and Dwight Evans wished he were home getting ready for the holidays with his family. Actually, he would prefer being just about anywhere but on this filthy, worn down bus, clunking along the highway on its way to Indiana. He questioned the morality of executing people so close to Christmas, but apparently such things were of little concern to the government. He supposed it should be of little concern to him, too. At least the weather was cooperating and matched the occasion, even if the season didn't.

Dwight gazed across the narrow aisle at his seventeen-year-old son. His forehead was pressed to the glass window as he stared absentmindedly out into the misty rain. The condensation on the glass wet his hair, and blond clumps stuck to the window in disarray. His knees were huddled close to his chest, and his broad shoulders were slumped. Even from the other side of the bus, Dwight could see the angst in his son's eyes. They had argued earlier that morning about whether or not it was the best idea to come today at all. But the kid hadn't budged from his convictions—he was nothing if not strong willed—and eventually Dwight had conceded. Though everyone told him that he had done his best for his children and had done what any parent would have done under the circumstances, he couldn't shake the feeling that he had failed as a father once, and he wasn't going to let it happen again. If this is what his son needed for closure, to move on, then that's what they would do.

Things had definitely brightened up for the Evans family. Six months after they had moved into the one bedroom apartment in Lima Heights, Dwight had found a job managing a construction site. While it wasn't quite the structural engineering work he was trained to do, he was qualified, and they were paying. The pay wasn't great, and there wasn't a ton of security, but he was doing well enough that they were able to move out of the apartment and into a small rental home. The house they rented had three bedrooms—one for him and Mary, one for Stacy, and one for the boys—and a little garden out back. It wasn't glamorous, but it was much closer to the first house they had owned in Tennessee, if not the nice place with a yard they had purchased in Ohio.

Looking back, it was hard for him to pinpoint the moment when things had gotten so bad. Sure, the day he had been laid off was terrifying, but as with anything in life, there was a before and an after. Before, there had been the decision to spend almost the entirety of their life's savings on a down payment and moving. There had been the promise of an excellent new job in a receding economy. Maybe that was the red herring he should have seen, and maybe that's when it all went wrong. After, there had been the days when he realized there weren't many other engineering firms in this part of Ohio, and that he wouldn't be able to walk into them and walk out with a job. There was the day they sold everything they owned. There was the day he had to explain to Sam that they were moving into a motel room because all the money was gone. Any one of those days could have been the breaking point; it was all too blurred to be sure.

But Dwight knew for a fact that his weakness as a parent, their weakness as a family, was finally exposed the day Sam went missing. They had been new to this place, had no one to rely on, no one to even watch the kids while he and his wife tried to find their oldest son. If it hadn't been for two friends of Sam's, two friends Dwight hadn't even known existed until that day, they couldn't have even both been at the hospital while the doctors tried to save him. Or worse, they would have had to bring Stevie and Stacy to that awful place to suffer through the wait with them.

Then they had finally gotten Sam back, and what could they do for him? What could they possibly offer him? A dirty motel room to come home to, where he couldn't even be miserable in peace. He should have had a bed to sleep in and blankets to feel safe under, not that shabby sleeping bag on the floor where the draft from the door hit him square in the face. When he woke up screaming in terror, Dwight should have been able to sit next to him in bed and rub his back until he calmed. Hell, even those animals who had kidnapped him had given him the basic comfort of a bed to sleep on after they . . . No. Dwight stopped himself. No. I did my best. I did the best I could.

Still, he had cried the day he shook Judy Fabray's hand and sent Sam into her mansion of a home with a backpack and two pairs of jeans. Nobody had seen him. He had waited until after Sam had gone inside and he was alone in the pickup. But sitting there alone in the truck watching his son walk away cemented every feeling that had been lurking and growing since he lost his job—he couldn't take care of his family. He was a failure. He was a bad father. He leaned his forehead against the steering wheel and allowed the tears to slide down his cheeks before it was time to regroup and be the best man he could be for what was left of his family.

He knew deep down that what had happened to Sam would have happened whether they lived in a motel room or a mansion. It had taken soul searching, but he had come to terms with that fact. There was nothing he could have done to save Sam from the agony he suffered through. What he still struggled with daily, though, was the fact that he couldn't take care of Sam on his own, the way he deserved to be cared for. He was a good kid. He tried so hard, struggling in silence most of the time for the benefit of everyone around him, and he didn't deserve to be handed off to someone else like some rescue dog they couldn't afford to look after.

Sam had told him over and over and over again, almost every night before he left to head back to Quinn's, that he didn't feel abandoned. He promised that it was helping him sleep better and that he understood why it had to be this way. But he was fifteen, how much could he really understand? How could he not feel abandoned? Every night, Dwight prayed that Sam would never look back on this ordeal and wonder why his family hadn't done more for him. The child he loved was simple and genuine with bright eyes and an innocent smile who would do anything for his family; God forbid he ever became hard and resentful and sneering. Just like the people who abused him, Dwight thought. Please, God, never.

And still, still the only reason he was able to iron things out at all was because of the charity of strangers. Strangers, once again, had taken care of his children better than he had been able to on his own.

After Dwight had taken the new job and things had stabilized, he tried to return the remainder of the money to Mrs. Meyers to distribute to the other families. She, of course, had refused. "Hopefully you'll never need it, but who knows," she had said over the phone. "Put it in the bank. Help Sam go to college, if that's what he wants to do. Or your other two babies. It was a gift, and it's yours. Make good use of it."

Dwight felt guilty holding that much money that he hadn't earned, but he reminded himself that really, the money was a gift to Sam, and he was only managing it on his behalf. He was meant to make the right decisions and use the money in a way that would benefit his son, and if he deprived him of that, it would just be another instance of him not being able to provide for him . . . Stop, just stop. Just. Stop. This isn't helping, and it hasn't helped. It was just another way to punish himself.

The bus rolled to a squeaking halt in front of a squat structure in a remote corner of Indiana. So this is what federal prison looks like, Dwight thought. He had never been to one, never imagined in his life that he would have to, and hoped he would never have to again. Sam had never expressed any desire to see his attackers before, and Dwight had been relieved, prematurely as it turns out, that he would never have to make this trip. So much for that thought. He knew he needed to be strong for his son, and he would be, but this was unsettling for him, too. It was amazing how even just being at a prison could make you feel like a criminal.

When the bus doors opened, Dwight stood slowly, stretching his creaking thighs. When did he get so old? He turned to the side to usher his son out, but he was already gone, like a blond flash up the aisle. So it was going to be like that, he supposed. He had hoped that the long, bumpy bus ride would have given him a chance to calm down, but it seemed like he was going to need at least a little more time to get over the huff he was in. He was a teenager, Dwight reminded himself, and he had more than ample reason to be upset. No child should have to deal with these issues. Hopefully this visit today, as ill advised as Dwight believed it was, would help put his mind at ease and calm the rage that was slowly burning inside him.

"Jared Engles?" the prison guard called. "You've got some visitors."

Dwight stood behind his son with his hands on his shoulders, trying unsuccessfully to smooth the shock of blond hair that stuck out in wet clumps from the rain. He looked like he had stuck his finger in an electrical socket. But true to form, he ducked and dodged with annoyance, huffing and trying to avoid his father's touch. He reminded Dwight a bit of a wild colt, hot and snorting and adverse to touch. He shifted from one foot to another uneasily, waiting to see the man who was at the root of this aggression, the subject of his nightmares.

The man was tall and painfully thin with emaciated, sunken cheeks and hollow eyes. His once longer, shaggy hair had been shaved short, and if Dwight didn't know better, he would have said this man was a Holocaust survivor rather than the criminal he knew him to be. But time had passed, and there was no longer any reason to hate. This man was paying for his crimes, more psychologically than physically, and the evidence was in the way his jumpsuit hung from his shoulders like a newly pressed shirt hanging on the back of a chair.

The boy tensed under his father's hands, and Dwight looked over his shoulder to catch the look of shock in his blue-green eyes. He could tell that Jared no longer looked anything like what he had been expecting.

Jared floated into the visiting room like a reed in a strong wind. His eyes scanned the room, looking for a familiar face. He hadn't been expecting any visitors. No one had been in a while. When he spotted that distinctive blond head, his eyes filled with confusion and a hint of wonder and joy.

"Sammy?" he asked timidly, not believing it was true.

"No." the young man answered. "Steve."

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Stevie Evans sat at the visiting room table with his father at his side and a real life monster across from him. He wasn't really sure what he wanted to accomplish on this trip to the prison, or what he wanted to say to this man, he just knew he had to see him. He had to meet Jared, and he had to watch Tyler die.

Sam, just two months away from turning twenty-two, had come home from Ohio State a few weekends ago when he didn't have practice to visit his family. Unlike the other students, for the football team, winter break was bowl season, and Sam didn't get a lot of time, other than a few days around Christmas, to be away from campus. Stevie was always excited when his brother came home—he liked his stories about college parties and football and school—but something had been stewing in him for a while. When his mom and Stacy had gone to the mall Christmas shopping, he cornered Sam in the kitchen.

"Sam, I want you to tell me now," he said, his face still and serious, his voice commanding rather than requesting.

"Tell you what, kiddo?" Sam laughed, ruffling Stevie's hair. Sam knew that Stevie hated having his hair played with about as much as Sam loved it. Since he hit puberty and turned into a little monster, he always complained that being blond was not a free pass for people to touch you all the time. As expected, he ducked away, glaring. Sam knew this, of course, but saw it as part of his brotherly duty to annoy his baby brother.

"In the hospital, you told me you'd explain it to me when I was old enough to understand. Well I'm old enough to understand things now, don't you think?" the sarcasm was palpable in his tone.

He could see the color changing in his brother's eyes and the smile falling from his lips. Sam was always smiling, and sometimes it really annoyed Stevie. The world didn't always deserve a smile, but Sam kept giving them anyway, and Sam's ability to keep smiling even when he was sad rubbed Stevie the wrong way. He never intentionally hurt his brother, but he'd be lying if he said he didn't enjoy watching Sam's big happy balloon deflate a bit every once in a while.

Stevie loved his big brother, but they had grown up differently. Sam was gentle and sensitive; he wore his heart on his sleeve and gave it away freely without fear of it being crushed. He was perceptive and thoughtful, and almost always sacrificed his own needs for everyone else's. Stevie, on the other hand, was outspoken and aggressive, yet extremely guarded with his emotions. He was keenly intelligent, with impeccable grades, yet his teachers still hesitated to call on him in class because he often possessed highly provocative views that he vehemently defended. He was stubborn, but had a strict sense of right and wrong and was almost always in the right. When he was wrong, he wouldn't admit it. Everyone who knew Stevie thought he was a nice boy, too intelligent for his own good, perhaps, but saw a rage in him smoldering just beneath the surface, waiting to explode.

Stevie attributed their differences in personality to the difference in age and perspective. Sam had grown up happy, at a time when everything was right in the world. He had spent almost his entire childhood in Tennessee, in their cozy little house, with the security of financial stability. He had grown up surrounded by his friends and people who loved him. Hell had struck when Sam had already lived fifteen good years, and he had a good enough grounding to know that fear and poverty and evil were deviations from what was normal, not the way the world was naturally. Stevie had only been ten when everything had changed. He had grown up in the constant shadow of poverty and in the never-ending wake of Sam's nightmare. He had grown up knowing that the world was full of fear and hunger and pain.

"Ok, buddy," Sam said, sighing. "Sit down."

Stevie was shocked. He had asked a few times over the years, and each time, Sam had either said he was too young, avoided the question, or flat out said no. For him to agree with no further argument was, well, completely unexpected. Stevie pulled out his chair and sat down stiffly, watching Sam collapse into his. Sam's right hand ran through his hair, a sign he was uncomfortable.

"So, um, what do you want to know?" he asked, trying to meet his brother's gaze. Sam was shy, didn't like being the center of attention, and not even being a star quarterback at Ohio State had changed that about him. Stevie, on the other hand, was intense. His version of eye contact was steady, burning, and unbreakable. He often made people feel like they were the subject of an intense inquisition; he made them uncomfortable. Sam was no exception, despite their close relationship.

"Start at the beginning, and tell me everything," Stevie demanded. "Don't leave anything out to protect me. And don't leave it out to protect yourself, either. You owe me the truth."

Sam nodded, his eyes pressed tightly closed. He hoped his brother would go to law school someday, because he was freakishly smart and completely unrelenting—basically everything that would make an amazing lawyer. Sam breathed deeply and opened his eyes. Just be straight with him, he's a big kid now, you don't need to protect him anymore, he told himself. He pressed his palms flat against the table, steadying himself.

"You tell me if you get upset and need me to stop, ok?"

Stevie nodded tersely.

Sam drew in a deep breath. He spoke quietly, but his voice was steadier than he expected it to be. This wasn't something he had to talk about often, and not to someone he loved so much.

"Every day after practice, I used to go for a jog. Mostly just around campus and down some back roads in town. There was one road in particular I liked to run to clear my head. It was perfect because there were never any cars, and I could just run without thinking. That day I was thinking a lot about Quinn, how distant she used to be. How I told her I loved her but she would never let me get anywhere near her heart. Anyway, this SUV pulled over and rolled down the window and they asked me for directions . . ."

Stevie was tense. He sat on the edge of his chair, his back perfectly straight, his neck and shoulders tight. For six years, his dreams had been plagued by shadowy, faceless figures, knives, guns, and Sam's tortured screams. There were even nights when the roles reversed and Stevie woke up shaking and sobbing from a nightmare and Sam had to hold him and rock him until he calmed. For him, the worst part was not knowing. The men in his dreams had no faces, they slashed at him from within impenetrable shadows. Now, he would know everything, and all those faces would be forced into the light.

Slowly, steadily, Sam led him through it, detail by excruciating detail. The kidnapping, the beatings, the rapes, the video. He even told him about the time he spent alone with Jared, kissing and nuzzling him and trying to convince Jared he was in love with him in order to save his life. This was something he told no one but his therapist, not even his dad or Quinn. But he didn't flinch or waver. He made a promise to his baby brother all those years ago, and he was determined to stand by his word. He would treat Stevie like an adult.

Enough time had passed that, although he still struggled with certain situations or emotions, Sam was able to state the facts of what happened without panicking or crying or shutting down. But he could see the emotions playing out in Stevie. He was normally so guarded with his feelings, choosing to release only little sparks when it suited him; but right now, Sam could read him like a book. His lips were pressed into a tight line, the muscles in his shoulders were twitching, and his fingers were wrapping around a glass of water so tightly that his nails were turning white. He was getting angry, Sam could tell. Very, very angry.

"Are you ok Stevie?" Sam asked gently.

"Keep going." His voice was cold and dead.

Sam navigated carefully through his attempt to escape with Jared, through the ride back to Ohio in the back of the SUV, and through the cold blades plunging into his body. He described how scared and weak he felt as he tried desperately to come to terms with his impending death. How heartbroken he was that he would never get to sit in the audience at Stevie's graduation or listen to him talk about his girlfriends. How he prayed that their mom and dad would recover from losing him fast enough to be good parents to the two little ones.

Sam was dry-eyed and steady. Stevie was on the verge of explosion. Sam watched, unsurprised, as Stevie's hand tightened against the glass, pulled back, then sent it flying across the room. The glass crashed against the kitchen wall and shattered, sending a spray of water and glass shards in all directions. Before he knew it, Stevie was on him, standing inches from his face, jabbing an accusing finger into Sam's chest.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Stevie demanded. "Why didn't any of you tell me?"

"Stevie, you were ten years old. You were too young to understand. _I_ was too young to understand," Sam offered calmly, trying to soothe him.

"No!" Stevie shrieked. Sam looked up at Stevie, straight into his eyes, ignoring the finger jabbing into his chest, punctuating each scathing word. "No! I could have helped you! I could have been there for you! All those nights you woke up screaming, shaking in a cold sweat, I had no idea what was happening to you! I had to just sit there and watch my big brother, who I idolized, suffering and I couldn't do a thing about it! Do you have any idea how scared I was Sam? Of what was happening to you? I spent all those nights watching something in you die, and I had to just let you go because you and dad didn't have the balls to tell me!"

Sam knew that any apology he could offer his brother now would fall on deaf ears, so he waited quietly. The tears were hot in Stevie's eyes, and he was too angry to prevent a few of them from falling. He didn't even try to wipe them away. Stevie felt betrayed. He felt guilty. And more than anything, he felt enraged at being forced to feel guilty. His family had kept him in the dark this whole time, and he had done nothing to ease his brother's pain. Pain stemming from an attack that was far worse than anything Stevie could have ever imagined. There had been times he had been flat out rude to Sam, times when he had been short with him over a bad night's sleep. How could he take it all back now? How could he, as an adult, undo all the things he had said or done as a child? He hated feeling like this. Despised it. The utterly debilitating feeling that he was wrong, very wrong, and that something needed to be done to fix it. His carefully held control was breaking. A strangled, guttural cry escaped his lips as he reared back and slammed his fist into Sam's chest.

Sam flinched, heavily, but the force wasn't enough to knock him from the chair. He sat silently watching as Stevie stumbled back against the wall, then slid down until he was seated on the floor, his knees wrapped to his chest. The tears slid down his cheeks, but they were tears of rage, and he did his best to sniffle them away. After ten minutes passed, Stevie seemed to calm.

"Feel better?" Sam asked.

Stevie looked up at him, only making eye contact long enough for Sam to catch the shame in his eyes, and nodded. Sam stood and extended a hand out to Stevie to help him up.

"Good. Let's get this cleaned up before mom gets home."

In the days that followed, he patched things over with Sam, who had already forgiven him without being asked to. But he needed to see those men. He had heard his dad and Sam talking about Tyler's upcoming execution and whether or not they would attend. Sam felt strongly that it was inhumane to watch the life drain out of someone for your own sense of pleasure and revenge. Even his attackers had driven off and left him alone to die in peace. And that was that, they wouldn't go. But Sam had mostly healed; this wound was still fresh and new for Stevie, and he needed to see the people who did this suffer. Suffer like Sam did. Suffer like he did. He and his dad had fought about it, but Stevie won, and now here he was at a prison in Indiana, making small talk with a man who looked too emaciated to be a monster.

"I've been taking my medication," the man, Jared, offered quietly, looking at his hands. "I know it doesn't change anything for you or your family, but I don't have the delusions anymore. I know I hurt those boys . . . I-I know Sammy, Sam, didn't love me. I know he was scared."

"He's forgiven you, ya know," Stevie said, his eyes burning. Jared looked at him, confused. "Sam's forgiven you," Stevie filled in. "He says that you were sick and that you genuinely thought you loved him and that you tried to help him." A small smile crept across Jared's lips. It wasn't that insane smile he used to wear when he thought about his precious, golden lover, though. It was a smile of relief.

"I'll never forgive you though," Stevie stated coldly.

Jared paused to consider this for a moment. "I know," he started. "And you shouldn't. You're the people who love him most, and it's always easier to forgive harm done to yourself than harm done to the people you love."

The guard placed a hand under Jared's elbow, helping him stand to lead him away. Stevie and his father turned away to leave as well. When they were almost to the door, Jared's voice stopped them.

"Steve?" he called. "Please tell Sam I said thank you."

Stevie paused, thinking, then nodded. He watched Jared retreat into the prison ward, the place where he would spend the rest of his life.

"Dad?" he asked, his voice small and childlike, "Can we go home now?" An arm crept around his shoulders.

"Of course we can, kiddo."

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Cindy Meyers curled herself into the corner of the couch, a fleece blanket wrapped around her knees. Christmas and New Year's had passed, but one of her favorite holidays was just about to start.

"Is it on yet, Dave?" she called excitedly. It was about the hundredth time she'd asked that day, let alone the week dragging along slowly between Christmas and New Year's.

She didn't really care much for football—her children had always been more interested in soccer—and she didn't know any of the rules, but she became a rabid, roaring Buckeyes fan the minute Sam had signed his letter of intent and accepted the full scholarship to play for _The_ Ohio State University. The OSU flag flying on her porch was a betrayal to the hometown team in Ann Arbor, but Cindy could care less; Sam was family, and she was so proud of him.

She was amazed at how Sam had grown, both physically and emotionally, since she first met him six years ago. Then, he had been a shy, shaggy teenager, his clothes too big and his ribs sticking out. He was so blond that he would probably glow in the dark. And he was scared, so so scared, while he tried to hold everything together for the infinite number of people relying on him. Cindy would be the first to admit that, at the time, she had been one of those people relying on him. An adult, putting the burden of her sorrow on the shoulders of a child. But even then, Sam had been impossibly strong.

Now, he had grown a few inches taller, towering at 6'3, and had gained quite a bit of muscle weight. He finally looked like he was healthy, like he was filling out his frame the way the creator had intended him to. His hair was still that silly golden blond, but he had cut it much shorter, and his face had lost some of its soft roundness, transforming him into a man. By his sophomore year, though he was still shy and soft-spoken in front of cameras, on the field he drove the Buckeyes to win after win, like he was born to lead. Jeremy would have been twenty-seven now, and Cindy couldn't help but wonder if that's what he would have been like.

She opened the Christmas card in her lap to read it again. Every year, she and the parents of all the other boys each got a Christmas card from Sam, thanking them again and updating them on how he and his family were doing. The first few had been a bit bleak—describing the move to the new apartment, detailing his progress in therapy. Now, they were almost all cheerful. Sam was twenty-one, nearly twenty-two, and he was clearly looking forward to the rest of his life. The card also always contained a picture. One year it was a picture of Sam holding his little brother in one arm and his little sister in the other like rag dolls. Another it was a picture of him goofing around at the prom with his friends. This year, it was a picture of the beautiful blonde girl, Quinn, smiling radiantly into the camera with Sam's lips pressed to her cheek.

_Dear Mr. and Mrs. Meyers_, it read

_Happy holidays! I hope everything is going well for you and your family up in Wolverine-land. We're doing well down here. Stevie is a junior, and he's taking his SATs again in a few months. He took them the first time in the fall, and his score was almost perfect (I didn't even know they went that high!) but he said if he wants to get into Harvard, he's going to have to do a little bit better. If not, he said he'd be fine at Georgetown because they're political like him. We all know who inherited my parents' brains! Stacy is doing well, too. She's a freshman this year, and she's on the cheerleading squad and in the glee club. I guess those two will help keep her balanced, so she doesn't get too cool for her big brother : )_

_Quinn is perfect as always. She graduated from Yale last year and got her degree in English and Psychology. She loves to write, and the psychology part she said was just for fun, since she thinks the two of us were basket cases in high school. Maybe we were, but I spent too much time staring at her to notice. She got a job with a publisher in New York City, and she loves it there. I'll be heading out there with her after graduation in the spring._

_I'm sure you saw on the press conference, but I decided not to enter the NFL draft. I know I disappointed a lot of people, and everyone keeps telling me I should do it for the money, but it just isn't for me. I love playing, but I just want a normal, quiet life somewhere with Quinn and someday, our family. I never wanted to be famous or anything. Anyway, after the press conference, a bunch of consulting and investment firms in New York offered me jobs. I was honest with them about my limitations, but they said that they would want me as a face for the firm, to get clients in the door and go to networking events and that kind of stuff. It all sounded pretty weird to me, but they said I'm famous from football and I have a good face. I don't know why anyone would pay me to be charming, but apparently that's a big deal in New York, and they said I'd learn as I go. And finally I get to be with Quinn! _

_Well, this is barely fitting in the card, so I better stop. Thank you again for always being there to support me and for changing our lives forever. I know the new year will have lots of good things in store for you!_

_Love always,_

_Sam _

_PS: I know you'll be watching us play Florida in the bowl game, but make sure you stay tuned all the way to the end, even if we're knocking them out!_

Cindy sighed, closing the card as her husband flicked on the game just in time to see Sam and the other Ohio State seniors run the team out onto the field for warm ups. She wouldn't miss a second of it for the world.

000000000000000

The balmy Florida sun was a nice reprieve from the frigid northeast winter, and Quinn sat in the stands, delighted to be in a light dress and sunglasses well before the season called for it. She looked out of place among the Ohio State fans—all scarlet and gray with jersey numbers and buckeyes painted on their faces—but Quinn's days of slicked ponytails and school colors were long past her. She was a Yale graduate, and a New Yorker now, and she looked the part.

She cheered along as she watched her boyfriend play the game he loved for the last time. They had talked over the phone about his decision over whether or not to enter the draft. He was essentially guaranteed to be a first round pick, probably even the first pick of the first round, and there were huge signing bonuses at stake. No one at Ohio State, in fact, no one representing the pro teams with the first few picks, even knew that he was considering not playing professionally. Quinn had tried to talk some reason into him. Wherever he got drafted—it was looking like Indianapolis or Miami at the moment—they would just have to do the long distance thing a little bit longer until she got a job in the city where he played. Sam agreed that she was way too smart, too talented, and too ambitious to be the trophy wife of some football player.

But by the end of the conversation, Quinn was convinced that it just wasn't what Sam wanted out of his life. She had pushed him to play because she didn't want him to resent her, didn't want him to give up on a dream of playing professional football to come live with her in New York so that she could pursue her publishing career. But the more she thought about it, the more she realized that he had never mentioned a dream of playing professional football. He had talked about a little house somewhere, and children. Singing their babies lullabies. Going to PTA meetings after work. Teaching their son to throw a football. Helping their daughter ride a bike. Maybe being a police officer or an elementary school teacher. The world consisting of just them. These are the things Quinn remembered Sam talking about, not being rich or famous or adored. So when he asked for her approval of a decision he had really already made in his heart, she gave it freely. And soon, they would be together, finally.

It hadn't been a perfectly smooth journey. After the hellish year they had Quinn's junior year, they had matured into a deep and loving relationship that had extended through the rest of Quinn's time in high school. Her senior year had been perfect—she won a national championship with the Cheerios, placed third at nationals with the New Directions, got accepted early decision to Yale, and even won prom queen with Sam by her side. Sam had quickly outperformed Finn for the starting quarterback job, and he and Quinn were the "it" couple. But after everything they had been through the year before, being "it" was just a nice confirmation that everyone else saw in their love what she saw.

They had tried to make things work when Quinn had gone off to Yale, but there were major growing pains. Quinn quickly realized that she was a bit out of place at her new school. She was rich, sure, but she was from some hick town in Ohio. These kids were worldly travelers from New York and Paris with professor parents and violin concertos already to their names. What she didn't know was that they all felt as insecure as she did. So they all played the game. They formed groups and tried to act enlightened. And in this new world of art galleries and symphonies and wine and cheese, having a boyfriend from home who was still in high school just didn't fit.

So she broke up with Sam. She went on dates with boys who took her to Shakespeare readings. She tried her hand at bantering over coffee, though Quinn wasn't sure if she really understood what they were doing. They laughed and debated flirtatiously over their opinions of Kant and Spinoza, even if they weren't getting the philosophy quite right. She tried a cigarette and had a one night stand or two, because it seemed like romance and true love were beneath them in the world of poets and philosophers and great ideas. But by the time Quinn realized that she and the rest of her freshman class were all just trying to impress each other with their coolness, she had gotten average grades, done average things, and had denied herself the one person who truly made her feel loved.

Sam had spent his senior year single. He wasn't waiting for Quinn to come back necessarily, and he could have been with any girl he wanted, but after her, none of the other girls compared. It wasn't that they weren't pretty or that they wouldn't have treated him well, it was the fact that Quinn had been through his life with him and grown into an adult with him. She was his first love and his first time. She knew things about him no one else would ever know. She was part of him that he could never give up, whether they ever got back together or not. He understood that they were in different worlds now, with her out in the world being Miss Ivy League and him still a small town high school kid with no idea what his future would hold. So he went at it alone, focusing on himself, his family, and his friends.

That summer, when Quinn came home, it took one look at Sam to know she had made a terrible mistake. It wasn't just that he was even more gorgeous than she remembered him being. It was that he was the one person who had loved her unconditionally, always, no matter what. He had never been anything but open and honest with her; he had given himself to her completely, unlike those boys at school who were just as fake as she was pretending to be. She was shy, fearing that she had broken his heart and his trust. But he had opened his arms up to her, drawing her into him. Their bodies melted together, just like they had always done. She made love to him, and she knew then that she would never leave him again.

This time, they made long distance work. For the next three years, they spent every night on the phone and made frequent trips back and forth. Flights to Ohio were cheap, and they saw each other at least once a month. Quinn often made little weekend trips with her friends out of Sam's football games, and when she couldn't get out to the actual game, she would throw a little party in her dorm and watch it on TV. She was so immensely proud of him . . . almost as proud as he was of her.

The guys on the football team always teased Sam about his unbreakable loyalty to his far away girlfriend. Between his looks, his starting quarterback spot, and the Buckeyes' success, he had become quite the celebrity in college sports. He had been nominated for a Heisman, though he didn't win, and drunk girls across the country threw themselves at him at parties. Sometimes less than fully dressed. But Sam would just find somewhere safe to deposit them and laugh it off. "Have you seen my girlfriend?" he would always ask in response to his offensive line's teasing. When they nodded appreciatively, he would always tag on "_And_, my girlfriend is smarter than all of ya'll put together."

Now, as the final minutes ticked off the clock of Sam's last game as a Buckeye, Quinn knew that they had made it through the worst part. In a few short months, Sam would be in New York with her. He wouldn't just be that cute guy on the TV, he would be the guy she loved, in her home, in her bed.

Quinn had been too lost in her own thoughts to notice that, after the boys celebrated their victory, the entire stadium had gone quiet, focusing their attention away from the field.

"Shut up Finn, this is a great idea . . . Wait is this thing on? Oh, ok."

In response to the booming voice, every pair of eyes in the stadium turned to the jumbo screen, and Quinn felt a deep, penetrating blush crawling up her cheeks.

"Hey Quinn!" Sam's bright, cheery voice called from the screen. But it wasn't popular, heartthrob, Ohio State quarterback Sam. It was fifteen-year-old dorky Sam, in that ridiculous blue target t-shirt she still slept in, with strands of blond hair falling into those pretty blue-green eyes no matter how hard he tried to push them away. Some of the fans were laughing at seeing their star as a kid, others cooing over his cuteness, but everyone was paying acute attention, waiting to see what this was going to be about.

"It's been exactly six days since I told you I wanted to marry you someday, and you said you would think about it. Wellllllllllllll, you've probably had a realllllllllly long time to think about it, and we're probably reallllllllllly old by now . . . God, I hope we're not like, thirty! . . . Anyway, I hope you've made your mind up, because I'm going to ask you again. Right now."

Oh God. Oh God. Quinn's heart began to race, her eyes, along with the eyes of eighty thousand of her best friends in the stadium, glued to the screen.

On the screen, teenaged Sam got down on one knee, the voices of Finn Hudson and Mike Chang clearly laughing behind the camera.

"Quinn Fabray, I'm pretty sure I've waited a long time to ask you this. Will you marry me?"

Quinn felt the tears welling in her eyes, and she dabbed at them delicately, trying not to let her makeup run. Keep it at a pretty cry, Quinn, she told herself. She was annoyed with the lumpy woman sitting next to her in the stands who, for the last minute, had been poking her in the shoulder incessantly. When she finally pulled her eyes away from the screen to look, the woman was pointing over Quinn's shoulder.

Quinn turned and gasped. While everyone had been watching the screen, adult Sam—still in his grass-stained uniform and pads, sweaty and disgusting and panting a bit from the game and his racing adrenaline—had snuck in beside her. He was sitting on the bleacher next to her, his wet, blond hair clumped in every direction, his eyes shining. An open ring box perched in his long fingers, and his eyes shone in the dwindling evening sunlight. The corners of his mouth twitched as he did his very best to hold off on his paralytic smile.

"I hate you, Sam Evans! I _hate_ you!" she wailed at him, letting the makeup run down her face and her nose drip. Oprah calls this ugly crying.

"Does that mean yes?" Sam asked cautiously, his eyes lighting up and the smile beginning to break across his face.

"Of course that means yes!"

As the stadium erupted into cheers, Quinn threw herself into Sam's arms, and for the first moment of the rest of their lives, they felt like they had come home.


End file.
